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Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/davisspoemssongsOOdavirich 


Dauis's  poems 


Songs  of  the  flge. 

By  col,   DUDLEY   H.   DAVIS. 


ILLUSTRATED. 


Press  of  John  Cox's  Sons,  Baltimore,  Md. 
1891. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1891, 

By  D.  H.  DAVIS, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washing-ton,  D.  C. 


V<l~^-J^  ■=M'' 


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DEDICATION. 


TO   A.    H.    LEWIS,   A.  M.,    D.  D. 

Deak  Sir  : — This  collection  of  occasional  pieces  is  sub- 
mitted to  the  public,  only  through  the  earnest  solicitation 
of  friends,  and  even  now  it  is  done  with  the  greatest  diffi- 
dence. 

As  in  former  days,  I  turned  to  you  for  encouragement 
and  spiritual  advice,  so  now  I  turn  to  you  in  this  my  em- 
barrassment, and  dedicate  to  you  the  only  book  with  which 
I  shall  ever  trespass  on  public  patience. 

I  hope  you  will  permit  me,  sir,  to  subscribe  myself 

Your  friend  and  servant, 

D.  H.  Davis. 


M6058S0 


PREFACE. 


T'T'^HiLE  the  adage,  ''Poets  are  born,  not  made,"  may 
be  true,  we  fully  realize  that  a  classic  education 
is  a  prerequisite  to  the  writing  of  poetry  that  will  interest 
the  literary  world.  This  classic  education  the  author  of 
these  lines  has  not,  having  been  bred  a  farmer  and  spent 
thirty-two  of  his  best  years  in  mercantile  transactions. 

Though  the  contents  of  this  little  book  may  serve  to 
awaken  many  tender  memories  in  the  minds  and  hearts  of 
acquaintances,  yet  it  never  would  have  been  given  to  the 
world  had  it  not  been  for  the  earnest  solicitation  of  friends. 

If  what  is  here  written — the  production  of  idle  hours — 
will  edify  its  readers  or  improve  their  hearts,  the  highest 
hopes  of  the  writer  will  be  accomplished. 

The  Authok. 


COMPLIMENTARY. 


Baltimohe,  May   1st,  1891. 
•Mil.  D.  H.  Davis: 

I  have  frequently  spoken  of  "The  Bard  of  Quiet  Dell" 
as  the  "White  Blackbird."  He  has  fine  sentiment,  and 
writes  real  good  poetry,  and  is  at  the  same  time  a  good 
practical  business  man.  When  you  wrote  me  word  you 
had  cut  sixty  tons  of  hay,  and  had  gone  to  buy  cattle  to 
which  to  feed  the  hay,  instead  of  baling  it  and  sending  it 
away  to  market,  to  thereby  impoverish  your  land — then  it 
was  I  thought  of  the  author  of  ''Home,  Sweet  Home," 
and  wondered  why  every  poet  could  not  hitch  Pegasus  to 
the  utility  chariot.  But  you  know  they  do  not ;  therefore 
I  have  always  admired  the  exception  to  the  general  rule, 
which  is  happily  embodied  in  your  peculiar  character. 
Your  poems  are  good  salad  for  the  home  circle ;  they  are 
good  solid  sense,  and  happy  metre  with  it.  We  never  get 
tired  of  hearing  the  song  of  the  wild  birds.  There  is  none 
of  the  piratical  cling-clang  in  the  music  of  the  wild  woods. 

God  and  nature  and  our  soul's  breathings  are  in  sweet 
consonance.  We  listen  to  the  anthems  of  the  early  winds 
of  Spring  in  the  soft  foliage  of  a  new  born  creation,  and 
our  souls  are  mesmerised  to  tranquil  moods  by  the  soft 
metre  of  their  balmy  loveliness.     David's  Songs  are  younger 


Vlll  COMPLIMENTAKY. 

to-day  than  when  they  were  first  written,  for  they  leaven 
the  souls  of  countless  millions,  and  after  you  have  read 
them  a  thousand  times  you  discover  fresh  beauty  in  the 
depths  of  their  anthems. 

The  sparkle  of  genuine  genius  will  live  forever.  We 
trust  your  Book  of  Poems  may  meet  with  general  favor. 
And  whether  popular  applause  shall  greet  it  as  the  cyclone 
mowing  the  great  forest  oaks,  or  the  gentle  dew  kissing  the 
petals  of  the  flower,  it  makes  no  odds,  for  your  thoughts 
will  awaken  new  ideas  in  others,  and  the  reproductive 
forces  of  the  soul  are  illimitable  and  eternal.  The  good 
man  who  had  contributed  so  largely  to  benevolent  purposes 
failed  in  a  financial  crash.  His  conclusions  were :  '*Only 
what  I  gave  away  I  have." 

With  many  kind  regards, 

Your  friend, 

Tom  Wash  Smith, 
Editor  of  The  Baltimore  Herald. 


OUR    FRIEND,    MR.   TOM    WASH    SMITH, 

Editor  of  The  Baltimore  Herald, 

^I^UBLiSHED  quite  a  number  of  poems  which  may  be  found 
in  this  book,  on  some  of  which  he  was  pleased  to  pass 
compliments  which  I  considered  worth  more  than  the  poems. 
I  have  no  words  with  sufficient  meaning  to  express  my  grat- 
itude to  him  for  his  encouragement  and  many  benefits. 

He  liveth  not  for  self  alone— 

But  soweth  seed  to  all  the  world  ; 
On  sweeping  winds  his  sheets  are  blown, 

With  head-line  bold— The  Baltimore  Herald. 
He  sees  the  feeble  steps  of  man. 

And  while  ungenerous  eyes 'would  frown, 
He  reaches  out  a  helping-  hand 

Which  comes  alone  from  the  renownM. 
With  clear-cut  words  and  aims  so  high, 

He  crowns  the  literary  world  ; 
And  at  a  glimpse,  with  skillful  eye, 

You  see  him  in  The  Baltimore  Herald. 
For  what  is  in  the  heart  of  man 

On  written  pages  he  hath  shown. 
Self  passing  through  his  medium  (the  pen), 

Realizing  not  the  seed  he's  sown. 


CONTENTS. 


PART    I. 

PAGE 

Pike's  Peak 1 

Pike's  Peak  (by  George  S.  Phelps) >i 

The  Closing  Scene 5 

The  Silent  Messenger 8 

Speak  No  111 9 

Terrors  Of  A  Criminal  On  Awakening  From  A  Dream.  10 

War  Eagle 12 

Johnstown  Flood,  1888 14 

When  We  Were  Boys 10 

A  Ramble  O'er  My  Native  Hills 10 

Shipwreck 22 

A  Man  From  The  Planet  Venus 25 

My  Long-Forgotten  Friend,  Lenore 81 

Consolation 84 

The  Store... 86 

Oh !  Shall  We  Meet  On  Heaven's  Shore? 87 

Thunder 89 

Mount  Of  The  Holy  Cross 40 

O,  Sinner,  Turn  ! 42 

Colorado 48 

The  Deer  Chase 45 

Good  Seed 48 

xi 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Lazy  John 49 

Christian  Soldiers 50 

A  Happy  Dream 52 

This  World's  Riches 54 


PART   II. 

Leno  Belle 59 

The  Lonesome  Chief 61 

Eclipse  Of  The  Sun,  August  7th,  1869 68 

The  Warrior's  Forest  Home 65 

In  Heaven  We  Shall  See  Them 68 

Autumn  Days 70 

Payton's  Ride 72 

The  Lonely  Window 76 

The  Answer— Song  Of  The  Shipwreck 77 

Dear  Bessie  Of  Ohio 81 

Centennial  Years 84 

Discovery  Of  Elk  Creek 87 

Son  Billy 89 

Kitty  And  The  Mouse 92 

On  Receiving  Her  Picture 94 

Lamentation 95 

The  American  Eagle 97 

'T  is  My  Only  Kitty,  Mother 100 

Mystery 102 

The  Man  Who  Never  Stops  To  Think 104 

A  Lesson 1 05 


CONTENTS.  Xlii 

PART   III. 

PAGE 

The  Bride's  Farewell 109 

Mammoth  Cave  Ill 

Uncle  Sam 112 

South  Carolina's  First  Ball 118 

The  Awakening  Of  The  Soul 114 

Strange  But  True 115 

My  Own  Bronzy,  Dear 117 

Rosy  Hill 119 

To  Mrs.  J.  Hamilton 121 

One  Hundred  Years  Ago 122 

Niagara 1 24 

Kiss  Her,  Quick,  You  Little  Goose  ! 127 

Result  Of  Thought 129 

Scenes  Of  Childhood 188 

Conclusion 148 


ENGRAVINGS. 

CoL.  D.  H.  Davis Frontispiece 

Mrs.  Emily  R.  Davis 80 

Miss  Leno  Belle 58 

Mrs.  Josie  B.  Taylor 108 


ii 


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If 
1 1 


RKRX    I. 


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Songs  of  the  Rge. 


PIKE'S  PEAK. 

Dedicated  to  My  Only  Son,  B.  H.  Davis. 


Oh  hoary  peak !  Thou  king  of  kings, 

Standest  thou  in  thy  matchless  form, 

Commanding  the  snow-capped  peaks  around  thee, 

Dazzling  the  eyes  of  men. 

And  baffling  the  skillful  pen, 

Thy  wonderous  grandeur  to  describe. 

Bathing  thy  feet  in  the  rippling  brook, 

And  chanting  weird  songs  on  the  silvery  tongue 

Of  thy  snow-fed  streams  and  misty  falls. 

The  cyclone  howls  around  thy  form. 

Dipping  their  smutty  wings 

Far  beneath  the  crowning  peak 

Of  thy  time-worn  massive  walls. 

The  lightnings  flash  and  the  thunder  rolls. 

And  the  clouds  drift  on  in  silky  scrolls. 

And  the  rain-drops  dance  on  the  silvery  stone. 

While  the  king  looks  down  from  his  sunlit  throne. 


SONGS    OF    THE    AGE. 


Eyes  of  the  pre-historic  cave  dwellers 

Gazed  upon  thy  wonderous  altitude 

With  adoration  at  the  close  of  the  day. 

Then  lift  thy  crown  to  the  skies, 

And  catch  the  last  glimmering  rays 

Of  the  golden  sunbeams  ; 

And  wrap  thy  golden  mantle  around  thee, 

Then  drop  thy  golden  robe. 

And  turn  thy  face  and  kiss  the  moon. 

And  wrap  thyself  in  nightly  vales 

Of  ghostly  shades  and  silvery  gleamings. 

The  sun  sweeps  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea 

And  burns  the  misty  shades  of  night, 

And  pours  a  flood  of  golden  light 

Upon  thy  miscy,  sparkling  crown  ; 

While  the  towering  gods  of  the  brook-worn  gorge. 

And  the  sweeping  fields  of  the  distant  plains. 

In  their  dewy  robes  peacefully  slumber. 

Still  wrapped  in  the  misty  shades  of  the  fading  night. 


SONGS   OF   T^E   AGE.  6 

This  poem,  by  Geokge  S.  Phelps,  took  the  first  prize 
of  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  the  great  contest  where 
four  hundred  poems  were  sent  in  from  all  parts  of  the 
country.  The  poem  on  the  same  subject  by  the  author  of 
this  book  was  not  in  the  contest. 

PIKE'S  PEAK. 


BY  GEORGE  S.  PHELPS. 


(first  prize.) 
At  flush  of  morn,  I  stood  upon  thy  heights 
Of  granite  gray ;  bright  thro'  the  parting  mists 
The  glowing  sunbeams  swept  o'er  distant  peaks 
To  reach  thy  rock-ribbed  form ;  a  moment  then, 
And  the  great  "  King  of  Day"  hi^  glory  flashed 
Above  thy  tow'ring  head;  the  stars  went  out; 
The  shadowy  robes  of  silvery  night    ' 
Were  touch'd  to  burnish'd  gold ;  the  dew-wash'd  rocks 
And  massive  boulders  for  an  instant  gleamed 
As  flash  and  shimmer  of  a  mountain  stream. 
Above  the  horizon,  in  God-like  majesty. 
The  ris'n  sun  pour'd  forili  a  flood  of  golden  light ; 
The  snow-fed  purling  stream,  in  silver  tints. 
Crept  down  the  mountain  side,  to  foot-hill  green ; 
A^own  the  rocky  way  the  lofty  pine-trees  caught 
The  Sun  God's  rising  beams ; 


SONGS   OP    THE    AGE. 


Swift  as  the  lightning's  flash 
The  golden  sunlight  sped,  to  wake  the  smiling  flowers 
That  slept  below ;  while  mountain  range,  and  hills 
And  dusky  glens,  and  valleys  far  away, 
Touch'd  with  the  splendor  of  immortal  light, 
Blush'd  crimson  and  gold ;  beyond  the  "old  time"  trail, 
Far  o'er  the  rocky  gorge,  bright  fall  and  torrent  wild 
In  radiant  beauty  lay,  luxuriant  fields 
Of  ripening  grain ;  pastures  of  living  green  ; 
Elvers  and  rivulets,  lakes  and  rippling  rills. 
That  caught  the  sheen  of  morning's  waking  hour. 
Cities  and  plains  I  saw ;  the  "  Garden  of  the  Gods  " — 
Creation's  ghosts !  Gods  of  the  ages  past. 
That  mock  our  puny  strength  and  laugh  at  time. 
There,  lofty  monuments  in  stately  grandeur  stand; 
And  weird  "  Glen-Eyrie  "  greets  the  waiting  day. 

Close  at  thy  base,  in  beauty's  glen-home  lies 
Fair  Manitou,  at  Avhose  springs  the  red  man  knelt 
To  (juencli  his  thirst;  w^hose  healing  waters  lend 
To  weary  life  Hope's  fairy  wings.      Hail,  royal  peak  ! 
Child  of  Eternity!  on  whose  wrinkled  brow 
The  centuries  mark  their  flight;  friend  of  the  stars, 
That  through  eternal  years  have  watch'd  with  thee, 
Oh  rugged  monarch  of  "  The  Great  Divide  !  " 


SONGS   OF    THE   AGE. 

THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 

Dedicated  to  Mj-  Daughter,  Lura. 


The  rolling  hills  were  robed  in  gold, 

And  fringed  with  curtains,  gold  and  green, 
And  highland  peaks  stood  grand  and  bold. 

With  crimson  valleys  trailed  between; 
Those  golden  robes  hung  from  the  sky, 

Like  drapery  from  a  kingly  throne ; 
Which  charmed  the  lover's  faithful  eye, 

And,  spell-bound,  held  him  to  his  own. 

Surrounding  peaks  propped  all  the  sky. 

Both  North  and  South,  and  East  and  West ; 
And  heaven's  dome,  hung  from  on  high, 

On  golden  pillars  seemed  to  rest. 
The  hills  built  up  in  fleecy  trains, 

And  waved  in  beauty,  step  by  step. 
And  brightening  by  the  cooling  rains. 

The  dazzling  sunshine  o'er  them  crept. 

The  sun  went  down  o'er  reefs  of  gold. 
And  early  in  the  new  bright  morn. 

His  eyes  seemed  proud  still  to  behold 
A  world  with  scenes  so  bright  adorned ; 


SONGS   OF    THE   AGE. 

But  Jack  with  snowy  sickle  came, 

And  reap'd  his  harvest  gold  and  brown, 

And  wove  a  carpet  of  the  same, 
And  spread  it  o'er  the  highland  ground. 

Then  all  the  forest,  grey  and  bare. 

Stood  like  dim  ghosts  scratching  the  sky. 
And  forest  birds,  so  sweet  and  fair. 

Began  to  plume  and  southward  fly ; 
Red-wing,  blackbirds,  ten  thousand  strong. 

Had  mustered  for  a  long  farewell ; 
In  musical  glee  their  farewell  song ; 

Out  on  the  breeze  began  to  swell. 

Such  music,  though,  is  not  for  me 

Ever  to  picture  with  a  pen; 
Their  song  was  shrill,  chords  sweet  and  free, 

And  charmed  the  stony  hearts  of  men. 
The  birds  were  gone.  Jack  came  again, 

And  wove  a  carpet,  grey  and  brown. 
And  scattered  frost-thorns  on  the  pane. 

And  cut  the  blooming  dahlia  down. 

The  farmer  hewed  his  winter  log. 

And  drove  his  herd  from  field  to  barn; 


SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 


The  boys  skipped  out  with  rabbit  dog, 
Kind  mothers  knit  warm  socks  of  yarn; 

Sweet  maidens  all,  with  sparkling  eyes, 
Stepped  lightly  o'er  the  kitchen  floor, 

And  baked  the  bread  and  nice  mince  pies. 
And  placed  the  fuel  by  the  door. 

Next  night  King  Jack  returned  again, 

And  wove  a  carpet  glossy  white. 
Without  a  spot,  without  a  stain. 

And  glistened  in  the  darkest  night. 
The  woodsman  to  the  forest  hill, 

With  gun  and  bowie,  and  dog  beside ; 
The  farmer  jingling  fco  the  mill ; 

The  boys  hunt  crooked  boards  to  ride. 

The  lover,  with  his  nice  brown  steed 

Hooked  to  the  cutter,  flies  away 
To  meet  the  one  he  loves  indeed. 

And  take  her  riding  in  the  sleigh. 
The  day  is  closed ;  day's  work  is  done ; 

The  farmer  from  the  grinding  mill ; 
The  lovers  back,  and  they  are  one ; 

The  woodsman's  deer  hangs  on  the  hill. 


SONGS    OP    THE    AGE. 


THE  SILENT  MESSENGER. 


There  is  a  magnet  charm, 
Or  affinity,  not  form, 

That  underlies 

The  piercing  eyes 
That  speaks  the  lasting  word. 
Yet  never,  never  heard. 

'Tis  not  the  eye  alone 

That  makes  our  Avishes  known. 
But  something  deep, 
That  seems  to  sleep 

Within  the  mortal  soul. 

Unseen,  yet  all  is  told. 

^Tis  not  the  midnight  dream, 
Nor  polished  words,  that  seem 
To  form  this  line 
Of  heart  and  mind, 
But  something  ever  still, 
And  yet  we  know  its  will. 


SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 


SPEAK  NO  ILL. 


Nay,  speak  no  ill  of  friend  or  foe  ; 
And  if  you're  driven  to  the  wall, 
And  there  can  find  no  good  at  all 

Unstained  by  tongue,  best  let  him  go. 

A  kindly  word  is  much  preferred 
By  those  who  seem  to  be  in  fault ; 
And  if  at  fault,  may  call  a  halt. 

And  straighten  every  crooked  word. 

The  slanderous  tongue  like  bells  are  rung, 
*  Where  all  the  town  and  country  round 
Can  hear  the  slang  echo  rebound 
To  sever  hearts  where  friendship  clung. 

The  tattler's  tales  are  like  the  sails 

Of  pirate  ships  upon  the  seas. 

They  always  sail  on  evil  breeze, 
Disguised  by  satanic  veils. 

When  fortune  turns,  and  trouble  burns 
The  wreaking,  pained  and  withering  heart. 
How  soon  does  friendship  then  depart  ? 

To  count  his  faults  his  virtues  spurn. 


10  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

Can  we  disown  the  seed  we've  sown 

When  harvest  comes  and  fields  are' brown  ? 
Is  there  one  perfect  to  be  found  ? 

Let  him  alone  cast  the  first  stone. 


TERRORS   OF   A   CRIMINAL   ON    AWAKENING 
FROM    A    DREAM. 


Great  God !  is  this  my  awful  doom  ? 

Yes,  doomed  to  this  dark,  dismal  cell. 
To  dream  of  joy  and  peace  at  home. 

While  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of  hell ! 

Tormented  by  the  blood  I  drew ; 

Tormented  by  that  awful  crime ; 
Tormented  by  the  maid  I  slew. 

Who  prayed  me  for  an  i]  ich  of  time. 

She  told  me  that  her  heart  was  true ; 

That  she  could  love  no  other  man — 
Oh !  cursed  be  the  knife  that  drew 

Her  precious  blood  upon  my  hand  ! 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  11 

For  still  I  see  that  pleading  look, 
As  if  her  tender  heart  would  break  ; 

She  kissed'  me  ;  then  my  hand  she  took, 
And  threw  her  arm  around  my  neck. 

"Aw^ay  !  "  I  cried  ;  "  deceiver,  stand  ! 
I  know  of  thy  dishonest  heart. 
Your  love  is  for  another  man,  . 
So  death  shall  sever  us  apart." 

She  sank  beneath  my  wicked  frown. 
Still  glancing  at  the  fearful  knife, 

And  cried  for  mercy,  sinking  down, 
To  close  the  scenes  of  mortal  life. 

But  now  the  dreadful  deed  is  done, 
A  jealous  heart  must  bear  the  blame ; 

For  she  was  true,  she  loved  but  one. 

And  he's  now  doomed  to  death  and  shame. 

Oh,  yes ;  in  dreams  I  see  my  bed. 
Mid  all  the  flaming  fiends  of  hell. 

They're  in  my  cell !  I  see  the  dead  I 
And  soon  must  I  their  numbers  swell ! 


13  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 


WAR  EAGLE. 


When  Southern  war  guns  of  the  South 

Had  set  the  mighty  ball  to  roll, 
And  hushed  the  tongue  of  Sumpter's  mouth, 

Which  chiird  the  nation's  very  soul 
Then  warriors  sprang  from  hill  and  dale, 

Throughout  the  bounds  of  freedom's  land. 
And  war  ships  flew  by  steam  and  sail, 

To  crush  the  grand  rebellious  band. 

And  all  the  nation,  North  and  South, 

Then  trimmed  their  lamps  for  civil  war ; 
And  death  belched  from  the  cannon's  mouth, 

'Till  heaven  and  earth  quailed  in  despair. 
Then  came  the  mystic  eagle  spy. 

And  joined  a  regiment  of  blue. 
To  climb  the  stairway  of  the  sky. 

And  lead  the  battles  of  the  true. 

And  now^  the  battle  had  begun  ;     , 
The  eagle  took  the  winding  stair. 

And  sailed  beyond  the  Southern  gun. 
Around  and  round,  high  in  the  air. 


SONGS   OF    THE    AGE.  18 

Ten  thousand  Southern  bullets  flew 

To  kill  the  golden  eagle  spy ; 
But  still  he  led  his  army  through, 

On  wings  where  bullets  could  not  fly. 

And  when  the  stars  and  stripes  had  won, 

And  armies  went  in  camp  by  night, 
They  found  the  eagle  on  his  gun, 

Hung  in  the  tent  for  roost  at  night. 
He  led  each  battle  in  its  turn. 

Through  all  the  din  and  clash  of  war. 
His  regiment's  pet,  he  soon  had  learned 

The  men  and  stripes  which  bore  the  star. 

And  when  the  cruel  war  was  done, 

This  bird  went  home  with  boys  in  blue, 
Who  crowned  him  king  of  victories  won 

For  starry  blue  and  armies  true. 
And  to  the  great  Centenniarl  Fair 

They  took  this  wondrous  kingly  spy, 
Who  made  his  throne  high  in  the  air, 

Above  the  din  and  battle-cry. 


14  SONGS    OF    THE    AGE. 

JOHNSTOWN    FLOOD,  1888. 


They  hurried  to  the  garret  ceiling, 

Six  children  and  a  lovely  mother, 
But  soon  the  deathly  waves  there  stealing. 

Filled  space,  'till  all  began  to  smother. 
And  their  doom  was  sealed ;  no  ray  of  light. 

But  a  foaming  flood  was  passing  by. 
And  darkness  of  that  fearful  night 

Had  cast  its  shades  o'er  moon  and  sky. 

They  bent  their  way  to  the  window  pane, 

And  the  mother  seized  a  floating  board. 
And  one  of  the  band  admission  gained ; 

A  kiss,  good-bye,  and  was  heard  no  more. 
♦Six  times,  as  the  floating  timbers  passed. 

She  placed  them  on,  and  a  kiss,  good-bye ; 
But  worst  of  all  was  the  dear  one  last — 

A  father's  pet,  with  mischievous  eye. 

Just  then  a  crash,  and  the  building  fell. 
And  was  swept  away  'mid  clash  of  sound ; 

But  she  clung  to  the  roof,  which  floated  well. 
And  swift  away  from  the  floating  town. 


SONGS   OF    THE   AGE.  15 

Out  on  the  waves  in  the  pitch  of  night, 

'Mid  shrieks  and  screams  and  dying  groans, 

And  not  a  l^mp,  nor  a  glimmering  light, 
As  buildings  groaned  with  a  hideous  moan. 

But  away  on  the  wings  of  the  waves, 

With  the  star  of  Hope  forever  set. 
And  just  a  span  to  the  hissing  grave, 

Where  wrath  of  the  waves  its  victim  met. 
Down,  down  the  wrathy  current  flying. 

Grinding,  surging,  hissing  and  roaring. 
Screaming,  groaning,  moaning  and  dying. 

The  angry  waves  'mid  forests  pouring. 

On  the  distant  shore  a  signal  light. 

But  the  forest  trees  walked  through  the  flood 
With  clutching  fingers  and  arms  of  might. 

Wrecking  the  crafts  and  the  floating  wood. 
A  voice  was  heard  on  the  wave-washed  shore. 

And  a  signal  light  was  gleaming  bright. 
And  her  craft  rushed  'mid  din  and  roar,* 

But  was  saved  by  men  in  pitch  of  night. 


16  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  BOYS. 


When  we  were  boys,  one  dreary  night, 
We  made  a  pine  torch  for  a  light, 
And  ventured  up  the  silent  stream. 
Which  bent  its  course  through  evergreen. 
Our  fishing  party,  brave  as  men. 
Bore  torches  and  a  gig  in  hand. 
An  awful  stillness  now  prevailed. 
The  brook  lay  slumbering  in  the  vale. 

The  bluffs,  and  oft'  the  rocky  ledge. 
Bathed  their  feet  in  the  water's  edge ; 
The  pines,  like  ship  masts,  tow^ering  tall. 
The  hills  built  up  like  ancient  walls. 
The  mighty  forest,  ages  old. 
Arched  the  stream  o'er  many  a  hole. 
And  Nature,  grand  in  her  display. 
Still  claimed  hei*  own  that  early  day. 

The  night  was  dark,  'tAvas  understood, 
But  doubly  dark  when  in  the  wood ; 
But  we  were  fishing  'long  the  coast. 
And  had  no  time  to  look  for  ghosts, 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  17 

And  no  one  dared  to  mention  dread 
Of  panthers  in  the  trees  overhead  ; 
But,  like  the  dread  torpedo's  shock, 
A  scream  re-echoed  from  a  rock 

Which  hung  its  ledge  high  o'er  the  stream, 
To  which  our  light  had  thrown  a  gleam ; 
That  hideous  scream,  that  wild  hiss  squall, 
Raised  hair  on  end,  and  hats  grew  tall ; 
And  I  can  never  paint  the  sound. 
As  down  it  poured  and  echoed  round. 
But  surely  I  shall  ne'er  forget — 
It  seems  just  now  I  hear  it  yet. 

But  this  enough  to  fill  our  cup ; 
We  then  explored  no  further  up ; 
We  now  went  trailing  down  the  stream. 
When  Harry  raised  a  maniac  scream. 
And  little  music  for  his  dance, 
A  scream?  a  prance,  a  maniac  glance ; 
And  all  the  words  we  heard  him  say : 
"  Take  it  away  !  Take  it  away ! 

"  It's  cold  as  ice,  and  I  shall  die ! " 
And  these  words  ended  Harry's  cry; 


18  SOKOS    OF    THE    AGE. 

A  huge  green  frog  leajDed  from  his  throat, 
Had  squeezed  'iieath  collar  of  his  coat, 
And  when  he  jumped  he  gave  a  squeal. 
And  Harry  staggered  back  and  reeled ; 
He  climbed  his  leg  beneath  his  clothes. 
And  scratched  the  skin  from  feet  to  nose. 

All  were  scared,  all  in  a  flurry, 
Frog  made  passage  in  a  hurry ; 
Aiiii  Harry,  gasping,  pale  as  death. 
And  wildly  struggling  for  his  breath. 
And  we,  recovering  from  the  shock. 
Recalled  the  scream  poured  from  the  rock. 
Well,  Harry  lived,  boys  laughed  and  screamed, 
But  all  went  gliding  from  the  stream. 


SONGS   OF   THE    AGE.  19 

A  RAMBLE  O'ER  MY  NATIVE  HILLS. 

Dedicated  to  My  Daughter,  Minnie. 


Long  years  have  come  and  rolled  away, 
Since  here  we  roamed  in  boyhood  days, 
When  forest  birds  sang  fnll  and  strong, 
In  sweeter  notes  than  human  song. 
From  this  high  peak,  so  calm  and  still, 
I  trace  the  brook,  and  distant  hill. 
Where  ancient  oaks  our  father  slew, 
When  these  dark  woods  to  whites  were  new. 

His  axe  was  first  in  all  the  vale. 
When  foot-prints  marked  the  only  trail. 
When  routes  were  blazed  for  men  to  see. 
By  chip  or  hack,  from  tree  to  tree. 
High  on  this  mountain  peak  I  stand. 
To  scan  again  my  native  land, 
More  dearly  prized  than  fame  or  gold, 
Or  even  friends  we  loved  of  old. 

Afar  in  yonder  distant  vale. 
The  soundings  of  the  muffled  flail 
Went  out  on  wings  of  early  morn. 
As  well-timed  music  from  the  barn. 


20  SONGS   OF    THE   AGE. 

The  golden  wheat  sent  down  to  mill, 
Where  burrs  were  run  by  drowning  wheel. 
Made  snow-white  biscuit,  soft  and  sweet, 
AVhich  comes  alone  from  new-grown  wheat. 

The  woodlands  fringed  around  the  plain, 
Where  browning  fields  were  minus  grain ; 
The  meadows,  dressed  in  velvet  green. 
With  scythe-mown  stacks  to  dot  the  scene ; 
The  lark  had  led  her  brood  away, 
Then  sought  a  pinnacle  of  hay 
To  blend  her  music  with  the  ({uail. 
That  whistling  stood  upon  a  rail. 

Unfading  as  the  sun's  sharp  ray. 
Are  sounds  and  scenes  of  that  bright  day  ; 
Two  miles  away  the  woodland  bell 
Banged  softly,  yet  we  knew  it  well. 
And  all  the  herds,  in  woods  around. 
Were  known  by  bells  of  different  sounds  ; 
And,  oh !  that  sweetly  singing  bird. 
Where  oft  in  woods  we  found  the  herd. 

Its  notes  were  charming,  clear  and  shrill. 
And  rang  in  woods,  from  hill  to  hill ; 


ISONGS   OF    THE    AGE.  21 

How  often  did  I  hear  that  song 
When  hill- top  shades  were  growing  long, 
And  gold- tint  clouds  on  summer  eve, 
In  fleecy  trains  rolled  on  the  breeze, 
And  in  this  golden  leafy  bower 
Was  e'er  its  home  in  childhood  hour. 

When  hills  were  draped  in  green  and  gold, 
To  charm  the  heart  in  days  of  old ; 
8wamp-robin  is  our  songster's  name, 
With  all  her  music  never  tame ; 
8he  flits  away  sweet  songs  to  sing. 
You  see  her  only  on  the  wing. 
But,  hark !  she  comes  with  sweeter  tone 
Than  e'er  in  youth  was  ever  known. 

My  cup  is  full,  I  ask  no  more,  * 

I've  scanned  the  scenes  of  childhood  o'er, 
And  on  this  towering  woodland  hill 
Our  hidden  champion  singeth  still. 

Thus  nature  bound  her  golden  chains 

Around  my  boyish  heart. 
And  evermore,  while  life  remains. 

These  charms  can  ne'er  depart. 


22  SONGS   OF   THE   AGE. 


SHIPWRECK. 


The  mighty  deep  Avas  deathly  still, 

All  round  the  sky  rests  on  the  sea ; 
Our  pilot  drove  his  ship  at  will, 

The  sailors  sunning,  lie  at  ease ; 
But  soon  we  saw  a  drifting  storm. 

And  howling  thunders  loudly  rolled, 
The  heaving  clouds  were  rent  and  torn, 

By  flash  and  streaks  like  liquid  gold. 

The  sleeping  sea  awoke  in  fright. 

And,  angry,  lashed  her  sheets  to  foam ; 
8he  rolled  her  waves  to  mountain  height, 

And  wrapped  the  ocean  all  in  gloom ; 
The  heavens  grew^  as  black  as  night. 

The  ship  was  tossed  by  Avind  and  Avaves, 
Still  drifting,  drifting  to  the  right. 

Abreast  the  isle  of  sailors'  graves. 

The  last  bright  hope  had  taken  flight, 
The  rigging  torn  from  stem  to  stern. 

The  steam  bleAV  out  Avith  roar  and  might. 
The  brilliant  lamps  refused  to  burn ; 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  23 

The  waves  had  gone  high  o'er  the  deck, 

And  sunk  our  helpless  vessel  low, 
Which  rose  to  meet  a  fearful  wreck 

On  cliffs  where  foam  drifts  white  as  snow. 

Our  ship  was  tossed  upon  a  rock, 

A  shivered  wreck  on  stony  bed, 
While  some  recovered  from  the  shock, 

Still  others  missing — they  were  dead. 
We  drifted  there  upon  the  isle, 

The  long  ill-fated  isle  of  gloom, 
Where  ships  lay  mouldering  all  the  while, 

And  death  was  but  the  sailor's  doom. 

There  human  bones  lie  on  the  sands. 

The  ship's  tall  masts  had  crumbled  down, 
Large  diamond  rings  on  skeleton  hands, 

And  trunks  of  gold  were  scattered  round  ; 
A  safe  there  stood  with  open  door, 

Large  drawers  filled  with  specie  gold ; 
The  inner  safe  ten  thousand  more 

Large  diamonds,  from  the  land  of  old. 

Large  steel-bound  trunks  of  silver-ware, 
And  costly  watches  made  of  gold, 


24  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

And  diamond  bracelets  sealed  from  air, 
Were  packed  with  skill  just  from  the  mold. 

But,  oh  I  how  small  did  all  appear ; 
The  star  of  hope  forever  set, 

The  close  of  life  then  drawing  near, 
The  doom  of  others  to  be  met. 

Three  suns  had  set  o'er  western  seas. 

When,  lo !  just  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
A  sail  came  driving  on  the  breeze 

Tow^ard  the  isle,  though  far  away ; 
No  ship  had  ever  reached  that  shore, 

Save  those  by  fearful  storm  and  wreck ; 
Small  boats  were  sent  by  sail  and  oar 

To  bear  the  lost  upon  the  deck. 

The  change  was  all  this  world  could  give, 

'T  was  simply  raising  from  the  dead. 
That  we  again  should  drink  and  live, 

Where  nature's  bounty  should  be  spread ; 
How  small  does  all  this  world  appear. 

When  close  of  life  is  drawing  near ; 
One  hope  is  of  ten  thousand  fold 

More  value  than  a  world  of  gold. 


SONGS   OF    THE    AGE.  25 

A  MAN  FROM  THE  PLANET  VENUS. 


A  Broiigole  Kell  from  Venus  star 

Had  sailed  beyond  its  boundary  line, 
Attraction  lost,  the  man  of  air 

Was  minus  power  to  conHne  ; 
So,  like  a  boulder,  through  all  space 

He  dropped  toward  this  rolling  world. 
But  miles  above  his  resting  place, 

The  Brongole  sails  again  unfurled. 

Yet  far  above  the  sea  and  land 

This  aged  man,  just  from  the  star. 
Beheld  the  world  so  broad  and  grand. 

With  golden  clouds  hung  in  the  air. 
He  lowered  his  Brongole  on  a  hill 

O'erlooking  all  the  city  crowd. 
There  rushing  to  and  fro  at  will. 

Like  winds  disturb  the  heaving  cloud. 

He  could  not  dare  to  venture  there. 
In  all  that  hurly-burly  crowd; 

He  put  his  Brongole  in  the  air. 
And  sailed  away  amid  the  cloud; 


26  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

And  then  o'er  hill  and  widening  vale. 
He  sailed  upon  the  gentle  breeze ; 

He  saw  the  engine  on  the  rail ; 

The  ships  and  boats  upon  the  seas. 

And  all  the  world  Avas  on  the  tij, 

A  rush !  a  clash !  a  roar  of  steam ! 
Till  night  shut  out  the  golden  sky, 

And  twinkling  stars  began  to  gleam ; 
The  cities  burnt  ten  thousand  lights, 

And  ghostly  shadows  walked  the  streets ; 
The  bell  of  time  marked  hours  of  night ; 

Tall  steeples  waved  their  national  sheets. 

He  sailed  high  o'er  the  city  street. 

And  lowered  his  Brongole  on  a  hill. 
Where  men  of  note  he  chanced  to  meet. 

And  this  strange  story  did  reveal : 
A  king  there  sat  in  golden  chair. 

His  kell  around  him  in  a  fold ; 
His  eyes  were  bright,  but  silvery  hair. 

And  he  in  years  nine  hundred  old. 

His  wond'rous  scenes  of  day  had  closed 
With  golden  tints  of  sunset  sky ; 

And  sad  was  he  to  learn  our  woes, 
And  know  that  we  were  born  to  die. 


SONGS   OP   THE    AGE.  27 

A  tear  stole  from  the  stranger's  eye, 

When  he  these  burning  Avords  were  told, 
,  That  he  on  e^rth  mnst  snrely  die, 
For  we  of  death  have  no  control. 

"0,  my  dear  Sir,  I'm  from  yon  star, 
And  I'm  in  years  nine  hundred  old ; 
I  cannot  die  in  lands  afar, 
.  For  half  my  days  can  ne'er  be  told. 
'  Our  world  is  bright  as  noon-day  sun, 
A  world  where  pleasure  never  dies  ; 
Each  day  new  pleasures,  just  begun, 
Ke-echoes  gladness  to  the  skies. 

"Our  days  are  bright,  our  nights  are  clear, 

No  cloud  can  ever  dim  the  sky ; 
But  silvery  gleamings  lill  the  air, 

Sweeping  grandeur  from  on  high. 
Ten  thousand  Brongoles  swiftly  fly. 

Ten  thousand  voices  sweetly  sing. 
Ten  thousand  harps  float  through  the  sky. 

With  thrilling  music,  on  the  wing. 

"In  yonder  star  there  is  no  sin. 

No  pain  nor  death  can  ever  come ; 
A«  time  rolls  on,  new  life  begins 
To  perfect  life  where'er  we  roam  ; 


38  BONG!;!  OF   THE   AGE. 

There  crystal  streams  forever  flow, 
And  ripple  o'er  the  golden  sands, 

And  trees  of  life  spontaneons  grow- 
In  balmy  plains  thronghout  the  land. 

^^There  cities  stand  aglow  in  white, 

With  streets  and  walks  of  silvery  pearl, 
And  golden  chandeliers  of  light 

Hnng  in  the  skies  all  round  the  world ; 
And  through  the  fields  of  boundless  air, 

Upon  the  glittering  winged  Brongole, 
We  sail  around  a  world  so  fair 

That  eyes  of  earth  could  not  behold. 

^^On  gentle  breeze  the  rich  perfume 

Is  wafted  o'er  the  land  and  seas, 
And  all  the  world  perpetual  bloom 

Throughout  that  paradise  of  ease." 
He  put  his  Brongole  in  the  air, 

On  outspread  wings  of  glittering  gold, 
And  sailed  beyond  this  world  of  care, 

AVith  scenes  too  grand  for  earth  to  hold. 


MRS.    EMILY   R.   DAVIS. 


SONGS   OF    THE   AGE.  81 

IVIY   LONG-FORGOTTEIM    FRIEND,   LENORE. 

Dedicated  to  My  Wife. 


I  met  her  when  the  evening  train 

Came  rolling  from  the  highland  wild. 
I  loved  her.     I  conld  not  refrain, 

Yet  had  not  seen  her  since  a  child. 
When  last  we  met  't  was  close  of  school, 

In  the  grand  Exhibition  Hall, 
When  she  was  only  ten  years  old. 

Yet  wore  a  charm  for  one  and  all. 

8ix  years  had  passed,  she  was  full  grown. 

And  robed  in  beanty,  angel  fair. 
I  could  not  call  this  heart  my  own. 

When  with  a  smile  she  met  me  tiiere. 
The  train  drew  up.     We,  all  aboard, 

Went  gliding  from  each  mountain  bend, 
'T  was  then  she  dropped  the  careless  word 

By  which  I  knew  she  was  my  friend. 

We  met  again  in  after  days  ; 

I  loved  her  still,  't  was  very  true, 
For  she  was  lovely  in  her  w  ays. 

And  all  respect  to  her  was  due; 


32  SONGS   OF   THE   AGE. 

But  half  my  heart  belonged  to  one 
Whom  I  loved  dearly  long  before, 

But  thought  perhaps  her  heart  was  gone. 
And  I  could  win  it  back  no  more. 

For  months  had  passed  since  last  we  met. 

And  then  I  dreamed  she  loved  no  more. 
I  tried  to  doubt  her  and  forget, 

But  still  I  loved  as  ne'er  before. 
She  then  was  nineteen  summers  old, 

And  when  we  met  love's  cup  was  tilled. 
For  I  those  smiles  could  then  behold. 

And  read  in  them  she  loved  me  still. 

'T  was  not  a  word  that  she  had  spoke; 
'T  was  not  a  sigh,  't  was  not  a  tear ; 
But  in  those  eyes  a  tender  look ; 

I  knew  she  loved  me,  loved  me  dear. 
By  magnet  power  love's  golden  chain 

Entwined  my  long  divided  heart. 

And  by  a  pledge  was  bound  the  twain 

Through  life  to  never,  never  part. 

So  years  rolled  on,  (fifteen  or  more,) 
Till  old  schoolmates  were  near  forgot. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  33 

When  in  a  dream  I  saw-  Lenore 

Where  last  we  met,  or  near  that  sj)ot. 
Oh!  long-forgotten  friend,  Lenore, 

Hast  thou  no  friend  to  soothe  thy  way? 
"Oh,  no,"  said  she,  "but  ask  no  more. 
And  call  on  me  another  day." 

My  heart  grew  sad,  though  all  a  dream, 

For  still  these  words  I  pondered  o'er, 
And  still  could  see  her  by  the  stream. 

Where  oft  we  strolled  long  years  before. 
I  dropped  a  note  to  friend  Lenore, 

And  soon  received  a  kind  reply. 
She  wished  to  have  me  call  once  more ; 

She  knew  that  she  must  shortly  die. 

Oh,  surely  't  was  not  all  a  dream ; 

So  I  at  once  resolved  to  go. 
And  soon  I  walked  beside  the  stream 

Where  in  my  dream  I  knew  her  woe. 
She  met  me  at  her  father's  door. 

With  joy  expressed  in  every  smile ; 
But  ah !  't  was  not  the  once  Lenore, 

Yet  beauty  lingered  all  the  while. 


34  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

And  with  a  smile  of  calm  repose 

She  then  referred  to  days  of  yore, 
Of  youth's  bright  hope  and  cloud  of  woes, 

And  then  she  paused  and  said  no  more. 
And  w^hen  the  hour  for  evening  train, 

As  w^e  stood  by  the  cottage  door. 
She  asked  me  to  return  again. 

But  a  long  farewell  to  friend  Lenore. 


CONSOLATION. 


"Then  He  arose,  and  rebuked  the  wind,  and  the  raging-  of  the 
water;  and  they  ceased,  and  there  was  a  calm.''— Luke  viii,  2i. 

Oh,  the  Saviour  speaks  to  me ! 

Lo !  He  walks  upon  the  deep ; 
Now  He  stills  the  troubled  sea, 

At  His  will  the  billows  sleep. 

Chorus. — We  are  sailing  on  life's  sea. 

Soon  w^e'll  reach  the  golden  shore ; 
Then,  through  all  eternity, 

We  shall  praise  Thee  evermore. 


SONGS   OF   THE    AGE.  65 

Saviour,  by  Thy  grace  divine 

We  escape  the  tempter's  snare ; 
Precious  Jesus,  we  are  Thine ; 

Wilt  Thou  hear  our  humble  prayer  ? 
Cho. — We  are  sailing,  &c. 

We  have  pushed  from  off  the  shore, 

Now  to  sail  upon  life's  sea ; 
May  Thy  spirit  guide  the  oar, 

For  our  strength  must  come  from  Thee. 
Cho. — We  are  sailing,  &c. 

Oh,  we  praise  Thy  holy  name. 

For  the  palm  of  victory, 
F^or  the  Lamb  of  Calvary  slain. 

That  from  death  we  might  be  free. 
Cho. — We  are  sailing,  &c. 

We  are  coming  to  Thy  bar. 

Dear  Lamb  of  Calvary; 
Faith  beholds  Thy  glories  there. 

And  a  crown  laid  up  for  me. 
Cho. — We  are  sailing,  &c. 


SONGS   OF    THE   AGE. 


THE  STORE. 


In  years  past,  twenty-two  and  more. 
My  dreams  led  out  to  run  a  store ; 
And  now,  for  thirty  years  and  more, 
By  day  and  night  I've  tramped  the  floor. 

I  then  was  young,  now  old  and  gray ; 
Time  like  a  dream  has  passed  away. 
Some  pages  dark,  some  bright  as  day. 
With  valued  friends  to  cheer  the  way. 

•High  on  the  shelf  old  ledgers  pile 
Which  fed  on  day-book  all  the  while^ 
To  mark  the  sales  of  city  style 
For  ladies,  girls  and  baby  child. 

Dishonest  nature's  own  display 

Has  left  its  index  day  by  day. 

And  strong  bound  ledgers  stacked  away 

Record  the  names  who  do  not  pay. 

Pen-holder  brass,  but  peu-point  gold. 
The  brass  worn  through  where  fingers  hold 
To  charge  the  goods  thus  bought  and  sold. 
To  rich  and  poor,  to  young  and  old. 


^ONGS   OP    THE   AGE.  87 

The  walmit  desk  is  long  on  hand, 
Old  show-case  on  new  counter  stand, 
New  store  room  finished  nice  and  grand, 
I  now  must  leave  to  till  the  land. 

Friends,  rich  and  poor,  we  hang  the  oar 
Upon  the  shore.     To  run  the  store 
'Haps  nevermore.     The  farm  look  o'er. 

By  rake  and  mower,  and  timothy  sower.    . 


OH  !   SHALL  WE  MEET  ON  HEAVEN'S  SHORE? 

Presented  to  My  Sister,  Mrs.  V.  Langfitte. 


Oh !  shall  we  meet  on  heaven's  shore 
Those  loved  ones  who  have  gone  before? 
My  mother's  star  has  never  set, 
•Its  beauty  shines  around  me  yet. 

The.  harvest  fields  once  brown  and  gold. 

There  father  reap'd  in  ages  old. 

Alas !  his  sickle  falls  no  more ; 

Oh !  shall  we  meet  on  that  bright  shore  ? 


38'  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

A  brother,  who  had  scarce  known  pain. 
Stood  like  a  stalk  of  well  formed  grain  ; 
Death's  angel  dipped  his  icy  wing, 
And  friendly  hearts  bled  from  the  sting. 

A  sister,  with  bright  golden  hair, 

A  brother,  bent  with  age  and  care, 

A  host  of  friends,  long  since  passed  o'er; 

Oh !  shall  we  meet  on  that  bright  shore? 

A  charming  schoolmate,  justly  dear. 
Robed  in  her  beauty,  angel  fair. 
Blooming  in  life's  path  like  the  rose 
That  graces  the  stem  on  which  it  grows. 

Alas !  the  reaper's  sickle  fell ; 
Alas !  a  mournful  funeral  knell ; 
Alas !  my  friend  was  seen  no  more ; 
Oh !  shall  we  meet  on  that  bright  shore  ? 

I  had  a  niece,  with  golden  hair, 
And  all  who  knew  her  loved  her  dear ; 
At  noon  of  life  I  saw  her  fade. 
And  on  her  cheeks  a  rose  was  laid. 

Which  bloomed  beneath  the  ringlets  gold. 
Too  charming  fair  for  earth  to  hold. 


SONGS   OP   THE   AGE.  89 

We  see  that  sweet  bright  face  no  more ; 
Oh  !  shall  we  meet  on  that  bright  shore  ? 

No  tearless  eye  could  view  that  face 

When  death  had  closed  her  cheerful  eyes ; 

Alas  !  she  slept  with  all  her  grace, 
As  though  death's  veil  were  mere  disguise. 


THUNDER. 


God  heralds  the  lightning  through  the  cloud, 
In  tremulous  tones  and  rolling  loud ; 
Rolls  on  and  strikes  the  ethereal  bell, 
To  ring  the  world's  great  funeral  knell. 

The  sun  goes  down  like  liquid  gold, 
The  cloud  lifts  up,  and  man  beholds 
(irod's  glory  painted  on  the  sky, 
Keflecting  from  the  throne  on  high. 


40  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

MOUNT  OF  THE  HOLY  CROSS. 


Towering  high  in  the  western  sky, 

Stands  the  Mount  of  the  Holy  Cross; 
And  on  this  peak  the  cross  so  high, 

Stands  like  the  world's  diadem  lost, 
Sculptured  in  traces  bold  and  grand, 
'     In  ages  dark  and  all  unknown. 
By  Him  who  worketh  not  by  hand. 
Yet  set  the  eternal  cross  of  stone. 

Set  on  this  mount  in  silvery  gray, 

Wrapped  the  golden  sunset  cloud. 
Unveiling  at  the  dawn  of  day. 

With  diamonds  glitter  grand  and  proud. 
On  arms  outspread  the  early  morn 

Pours  golden  splendor  from  the  sun, 
And  all  the  ages  yet  unborn 

Shall  find  its  course  is  never  run. 

High  on  this  pinnacle  of  stone. 

The  kingly  mountain  of  the  world. 

There  God  has  set  His  earthly  throne. 
The  Cross,  His  banner,  there  unfurled. 


SONGS   OP    THE    AGE.  41 

The  Golden  Gate  now  stands  ajar, 
Men  from  the  east  are  drifting  by, 

And  rays  gleam  from  the  golden  star, 
Which  leadeth  to  that  Cross  on  high. 

The  Cross  of  Calvary  is  lost; 

But  Christ  now  sits  upon  the  throne, 
Pleads  for  a  world  of  sin  and  dross. 

And  points  it  to  the  cross  of  stone. 
The  unbelieving  sinners,  all. 

The  Cross  of  Calvary  disown  ; 
Then  gaze  upon  the  mount  so  tall, 

And  tremble  'neath  the  cross  of  stone, 

Which  from  pure  ether  grandly  shines. 

To  prove  the  holy  written  word. 
And  on  this  seal  the  hand  divine 

Has  written,  ''Holy  is  the  Lord." 
Over  the  range  to  the  Golden  Gate, 

In  splendor  shines  this  living  cross ; 
In  sight  of  all  men,  small  and  great. 

The  symbol  of  the  sacred  loss. 


^1^^^ 


42  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 


O,  SINNER,  TURN! 


0,  sinner,  turn !  why  will  you  die, 

And  lose  a  precious  soul  ? 
When  there's  a  mansion  built  on  high, 

Where  streets  are  paved  with  gold. 

Our  Saviour,  who  on  Calvary  died, 

Stands  ready  to  receive ; 
His  arms  of  love  extended  wide. 

And  bids  thee  now  believe. 

He  died  that  sinful  dust  might  live. 

And  do  we  count  the  cost. 
Or  will  Ave  souls  to  Satan  give. 

Regardless  of  the  loss  ? 

Hqw  bright  the  King  of  Glory  shines. 
When  sorrowing  souls  believe. 

Who  hear  the  whisper,  thou  art  Mine, 
From  sin  thy  soul  is  freed. 

The  cloud  of  darkness  is  removed ; 

Bright  heaven  shines  around, 
And  fills  the  soul  with  sacred  love. 

And  fits  it  for  the  crown. 


SONGS   OF    THE   AGE.  43 

The  saints  rejoice  in  heaven  above, 

While  angels  hover  o'er, 
The  new-born  soul,  so  full  of  love, 

AVhose  God  they  all  adore. 

Why  will  you,  then,  poor  sinner,  stay  ? 

Salvation's  offered  free ; 
And  God  invites,  while  friends  do  pray, 

And  this  is  all  for  thee. 


COLORADO. 


The  world  of  nations  haVe  their  kings. 

Where  golden  diadems  glitter  proud ; 
The  King  of  States  new  glory  brings. 

With  crowning  head  high  in  the  cloud. 
Colorado  is  the  King  of  States, 

With  crowns  of  gold  wrapped  in  the  sky, 
And  from  her  w^alls  the  Golden  Gate 

Is  hinged  on  silver  gleaming  high. 


44  SONGS    OF    THE    AGE. 

Her  mountain  peaks  are  fringed  with  gold, 

Her  walls  are  knit  with  silver  strands, 
And  silver  brick  just  from  the  mould 

Are  piled  on  pavements  through  the  land. 
Her  snow-capped  peaks  of  purity 

Send  health  and  long  life  through  the  vale. 
And  ages  of  obscurity 

Are  now  the  ages  of  the  rail. 

With  windings  through  the  walls  so  tall. 

And  grading  up  the  mountain  side, 
With  power  and  room  for  one  and  all. 

Who  on  the  rail  may  wish  to  ride ; 
Over  the  range  they  puff  and  blow. 

Ten  thousand  feet  up  in  the  sky. 
Pass  all  the  clouds  which  drift  below, 

And  wrap  in  golden  clouds  on  high. 

Tornado  storms,  in  smutty  sheet. 

Swift  howl  around  the  peak  so  high. 
But  dip  their  wings  beneath  the  feet 

Of  those  who  may  be  on  the  fly. 
The  golden  rays  flash  from  the  sun, 

As  nature  sinks  it  down  to  rest. 
And  when  its  course  is  fully  run. 

All  heaven  is  golden  in  the  west. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  45 

The  King  of  States,  and  king  of  all, 

With  tallest  peaks  e'er  crowned  with  gold, 
And  deeper  gorges,  higher  walls 

Than  crown  the  Switzerland  of  old. 
Fertile  valleys,  crystal  fountains. 

And  many  wide  extending  plains. 
Spread  between  her  snow-capped  mountains. 

Checkered  with  railroads  and  sweeping  trains. 


THE  DEER  CHASE. 


The  rolling  hills  were  capped  with  snow, 
And  deer  were  rambling  high  and  low, 
A  thunder's  roar,  mid  timbers  tall. 
When  hunters  lired  the  one  ounce  ball, 
A  wounded  deer  had  given  chase. 
And  not  a  man  about  the  place. 

So  mother  took  her  curs  and  knife. 
To  give  the  deer  one  chase  for  life ; 
The  hills  re-echoed  music  sounds. 
All  different  sounds  from  many  hounds, 


46  SONGS   OF   THE   AGE. 

And  louder,  louder  came  the  sounds, 
As  forest  hills  they  circled  round. 

But  centering  to  the  crossing  place, 
Where  curs  had  often  )von  the  race. 
Still  louder  bawled  the  trailing  hound. 
And  lo!  the  deer  came  bouncing  round, 
Came  loping,  loping  through  the  field, 
Where  mother  had  her  curs  concealed. 

She  loosed  the  chain,  they  scaled  around. 
They  seized  and  tore  him  to  the  ground ; 
She  cut  his  throat,  and  stopped  the  sounds 
Of  many  yelping,  yelping  hounds. 
And  o'er  yon  hill  and  through  that  vale 
The  hounds  came  yelping  on  the  trail. 

And  lo !  a  deer,  with  horns  so  tall. 

Could  whip  the  trail  hounds,  curs  and  all ; 

Then  brother  and  I  down,  down  the  vale ; 

The  fight  was  up,  he  seized  a  rail, 

And  with  the  yengeance  of  a  fiend. 

He  struck  his  horns ;  his  eyes  turned  green- 

And  with  more  madness  than  before. 
He  used  his  horns  to  plunge  and  gore. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  47 

Now  all  the  dogs  put  in  the  chase. 

By  this  dread  moment  reached  the  place ; 

But  he  was  champion  over  all, 

Eyes  flashing  green  and  horns  so  tall. 

Then  brother  rallied  with  his  rail, 
His  horns  were  splintered  in  his  trail. 
And  he  came  tumbling  with  a  bawl. 
The  dogs  then  seized  him,  one  and  all. 
Oh,  could  I  live  it  o'er  again. 
And  hear  the  music  of  that  train  ! 

Long  stretched  across  the  hill  and  vale, 

All  yelping,  yelping  on  the  trail. 

Now  this  recalls  another  scene, 

When  summer  spread  her  carpet  green ; 

A  smaller  deer  had  given  chase 

O'er  field  and  fence,  through  father's  place. 

The  dogs  were  nipping  at  her  heels, 
'T  was  near  the  house  just  in  the  fields; 
I  had  two  sisters  there  alone. 
But  to  the  field  they  bravely  ran. 
They  reached  the  spot,  the  deer  was  down, 
And,  in  excitement,  now  said  one : 


48  SONGS   OF, THE   AGE. 

"Oh,  cut  its  throat !     Be  quick  !  be  quick !" 
IShe  cut  across,  then  tried  to  stick ; 
But,  oh !  the  deer  began  to  bawl, 
8he  ran  and  screamed,  climbed  fences  tall, 
And  threw  the  bloody  knife  away. 
And  lost  her  courasfe  to  this  day. 


GOOD  SEED. 

Presented  to  Mks.  John  Booth. 


(xood  seed  sown  on  the  earth 

Shall  ever  bloom  in  heaven ; 

And  while  eternity  rolls  on 

Grow  more  beautiful  and  lovely. 

Variegating  its  tints 

With  the  golden  skies 

Of  the  heavenly  world. 

While  the  everlasting  fountain. 

Which  flows  from  the  throne  of  God, 

Shall  lift  its  golden  spray 

In  heavenly  clouds. 

To  fall  like  dew-drops 

On  the  never  withering  bloom 

Which  shall  live  forever  and  ever. 


SONGS    OF    THE    AGE.  49 

LAZY  JOHN. 


I  met  Miss  Lily  in  the  rain ; 

Her  cheeks  were  fair  and  bright, 
And  Cnpid's  arrow  caused  a  pain — 

I  loved  her  dear  at  sight. 

She  smiled  a  little  as  we  passed ; 

My  heart  could  not  refrain, 
I  loved  her  first,  I  loved  her  last, 

I  loved  her  in  the  rain. 

I  met  Miss  Lily's  mother,  then. 
Her  friendship  wished  to  gain ; 

I  told  her  I  was  Lily's  friend, 
I  met  her  in  the  rain. 

She  gave  a  look  I'll  ne'er  forget ; 
"  Do  you  mean  to  offend  ? 
I  fear,  dear  sir,  you're  too  much  set; 
Such  rain-beau  is  no  friend." 


50  SONGS    OP^    THE   AGE. 

CHRISTIAN   SOLDIERS. 


We're  a  band  of  Christian  soldiers, 

Now  enlisted  for  the  war ; 
On  the  wheels  of  time  are  rolling 

To  the  land  of  light  afar ; 
We  shall  fear  no  cannon's  rattle, 

For  our  banner  is  unfurled, 
And  our  General  rules  the  battle 

Through  the  nations  of  the  world. 

Chokus. 

Then  march  along,  happy  throng,  make  no  delay ; 
Call  those  by  the  wayside  while  it's  called  to-day ; 
Go  tell  them  we  are  soldiers  fighting  for  the  Lord, 
And  if  they  join  our  army  they  shall  have  the  great 
reward. 

Yes,  the  teachers  are  our  captains, 
And  the  school  an  army  strong; 

Though  our  foe's  arrayed  in  battle, 
Yet  we  fearless  march  along ; 

And  we'll  say  to  heathen  nations : 
Come  and  join  our  army,  too. 


SONGS   OF   THE    AGE.  5^ 

Por  this  land  is  not  our  station, 
But  we  have  a  land  in  view. 
Cho. — Then  march  along,  &c. 

From  the  heathen  land  of  China 

To  the  wilds  of  Afric's  plain, 
And  through  hills  and  vales  of  Syria, 

We  should  lengthen  out  our  chain ; 
By  the  mission  work  our  army 

May  unfold  her  banners  there, 
And  the  heathen  souls  of  darkness 

May  unite  with  us  in  prayer. 
Cho. — Then  march  along,  &c. 

Then  awake,  0  ye  that  slumber ! 

Be  ye  always  at  your  post. 
And  we'll  swell  this  happy  number. 

Seeking  heaven's  boundless  coast ; 
For  our  home's  beyOnd  the  river. 

Where  no  sorrows  ever  come ; 
In  that  long  and  bright  forever 

We  shall  rest  with  Christ  at  home. 
Cho. — Then  march  along,  &c. 


^2  SONGS    OF    THE    AGE. 


A  HAPPY  DREAM. 


In  shades  of  night  a  happy  dream 

Once  led  me  back  to  youthful  days ; 
And  in  the  ball-room  beauty  seemed 

To  flash  with  smiles  and  grand  displays. 
A  cousin  there  I  gladly  met, 

With  blooming  cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes 
A  tender  glance,  expression  sweet, 

And  love  which  from  all  innocence  rise. 

And  we  of  course  have  not  grown  old ; 

We've  simply  slept  thirty-tive  years  ; 
The  love  we  knew  has  not  grown  cold, 

But  wakes  with  joy  and  loving  tears. 
IShe  meets  me  with  a  loving  smile. 

We  dance  as  oft  we  danced  before ; 
We  love,  but  not  in  clipid's  style — 

To  meet  the  Parson  on  the  floor. 

Yet  we  are  single  all  the  while, 
And  talk  of  those  we  love  so  dear ; 

And  have  no  secrets  of  a  style 
Too  good  for  each  other  to  hear : 


SONCIS    OF    THE    AGE.  53 

And  so  we  turn  the  golden  page, 

And  there  we  find  a  written  line : 
■^To  my  beloved  I'm  engaged ;" 

"And  so,"  says  she,  "I  am  to  mine." 

So  at  this  little  secret  glance 

We  both  are  more  than  happy  still, 
The  floor  much  softer  for  the  dance. 

The  music  carries  us  at  will ; 
But  we  would  gladly  leave  the  floor 

And  talk  of  prospects  sure  and  bright, 
When  we  should  push  from  off  the  shore 

With  double  oar  and  boat  so  light. 

But,  that  fair  angel,  whom  I  loved. 

Had  winged  away  to  some  bright  shore, 
And  in  the  happy  crowd  I  moved. 

Was  still  alone,  while  on  the  floor. 
My  hope  was  bright  that  we  should  meet 

On  some  fair  shore  of  wedded  bliss. 
Where  golden  sands  might  pave  her  street, 

And  lips  should  meet  no  parting  kiss. 

I  then  stepped  back  from  out  the  dream  ; 
My  heart  was  beating  quick  and  warm ; 


54  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

The  embers  cast  a  timid  gleam ; 

My  angel's  wing  wrapped  round  my  arm. 
The  sands  of  life  had  rolled  away, 

'J'he  years  that  stopped  were  in  the  dream ; 
They'd  left  their  trail  of  silvery  gray, 

In  them  my  cousin  had  not  seen. 


THIS  WORLD'S  RICHES. 


You  may  boast  of  your  mountains^ 

Your  valleys  behold ; 
Of  your  herds  and  your  fountains. 

Your  silver  and  gold  ; 
Of  your  million-built  hall. 

Your  cars  on  the  rail, 
Your  monuments  tall, 

Your  vessels  on  sail. 

Of  your  factory  and  mill, 

Y^our  cities  and  town. 
Your  gold  in  the  hills. 

Where  riches  abound ; 


SONGS  OP  thp:  age. 


55 


Of  the  smooth,  fertile  plains, 
Which  spread  in  the  West, 

And  imagine  all  gains 
As  riches  and  rest. 

But  't  is  all  vain  delusion ; 

Each  gem  has  a  snare, 
A  fear  of  intrusion, 

A  sting  or  a  care ; 
For  the  only  true  wealth 

This  world  can  define, 
With  a  share  of  good  health, 

Is  contentment  of  mind. 


RKRX    I  I. 


T 


57 


\ 


MISS  LENO  BELLE. 


Songs  of  the  Age. 


LENO   BELLE. 

Dedicated  to  Her  Brother,  Hon.  William  Jeffrey. 


The  sun  swept  o'er  hills  far  away. 

And  morning  splendor,  bright  as  gold. 
Then  painted  nature  with  display 

Far  as  the  eye  can  e'er  behold ; 
The  silvery  dew-drops  kissed  the  rose, 

Then  slyly  stole  within  its  fold 
To  wake  it  from  its  sweet  repose 

And  variegate  with  rainbow  gold. 

The  birds  sang  sweetly  in  the  trees, 

And  mournfully  complained  the  dove — 
One  representing  life  and  ease. 

One  representing  loss  of  love ; 
All  mingling  sounds  and  lovely  scenes 

Refreshed  the  shades  on  memory's  wall. 
When  school  of  youth  was  ever  green, 

And  Belle  wore  charms  for  one  and  all. 


60  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

Alone  I  stood  amid  the  tombs, 

Where  sods  were  turned  years  long  ago ; 
The  heaping  turf  beneath  the  bloom 

Inclosed  the  sleeping  dust  below ; 
I  read  each  stone  with  lifted  head, 

Which  bore  each  name  in  letters  small ; 
But  one  I  sought  among  the  dead, 

Just  one  alone,  and  that  was  all. 

My  search  was  long  and  seemed  in  vain, 

And  I  had  changed  my  course  to  go ; 
Unconscious  steps  led  back  again. 

Ah !  why  it  was  I  do  not  know^ ; 
Impressions  more  than  words  could  speak 

Then  led  me  to  a  distant  stone. 
And  thus  the  name  I  there  would  seek 

Mysteriously  to  me  was  shown. 

What  fairy  hand  had  led  me  there, 

Ah !  I  can  never  tell ; 
But  't  w^as  the  name  of  the  once  fair 

In  school,  the  charming  Leno  Belle ; 
And  though  the  flight  of  time  had  marked 

Three  years  upon  her  lonely  grave. 
And  sealed  that  form  deep  in  the  dark. 

Yet  felt  a  pang  for  beauty's  slave. 


SONGS   OF    THE    AGE.  61 


THE   LONESOME  CHIEF. 


Ill  days  gone  by,  long  years  ago, 

A  little  crew  sought  for  this  land ; 
Their  vessel  sailed  for  weal  or  woe. 

Yet  enterprise  was  great  and  grand ; 
And  lo !  they  found  the  gloomy  shore, 

The  home  of  unknown  savage  man, 
Which  the  dark  forest  clustered  o'er 

From  western  gulfs  to  eastern  sand. 

'T  was  when  the  little  winding  streams. 

In  lonesome  murmurs,  found  their  way 
Through  shady  groves,  where  sunlight  beams 

Had  never  poured  their  golden  ray ; 
And  when  the  song  of  spring-time  birds 

Were  only  heard  by  savage  man. 
And  when  wild  beasts,  in  groups  and  herds^ 

Were  chased  by  yelling  Indian  bands. 

The  chief  then  bartered  with  the  whites, 
And  sold  his  birthright  for  a  bribe ; 

Released  to  them  his  forest  rights. 
To  seek  the  West  with  all  his  tribe ; 


<)3  S0NG8  OF  thp:  age. 

Tliev  roamed  the  Mississippi  wild, 
Exposed  to  death  by  winter's  blast ; 

Their  chief  survived  with  but  his  child, 
Who  drooped  in  spring  and  died  at  last. 

When  he  had  hollowed  out  the  bed 

That  soon  must  hide  that  lovely  face, 
He  gazed  upon  the  sleeping  dead, 

The  fairest  bloom  of  all  his  race. 
Then  kissed  and  laid  her  in  the  tomb ; 

She  was  his  last  and  only  friend ; 
And  then  he  thought  of  childhood  home. 

And  what  must  shortly  be  his  end. 

Again  he  sought  the  sea-wave  home. 

The  home  his  father's  birthright  gave. 
And  there  in  tattered  rags  he  roamed. 

Where  once  he  sported  with  the  brave ; 
And  then,  with  bitterness  of  soul. 

His  last  and  loud  complaints  were  made, 
W^hile  standing  'neath  the  oaks  of  old. 

Where  wigwam  beds  in  youth  were  laid : 

-"  You  drove  me  from  my  native  wild. 
And  slew  the  forest  that  I  loved. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  68 

And  now  mj  wife  and  only  cliild 

Camp  in  yon  moon,  'mid  stars  above ; 

And  I,  with  burning  tears,  now  stand 
To  view  my  childhood's  landscape  o'er, 

Where  all  my  tribe  went  heart  and  hand 
When  first  I  knew  this  forest  shore. 

*'You  drove  ns  from  yon  seaside  wave, 

That  beautiful  and  lovely  sea ; 
You  drove  us  to  the  icy  grave, 

Where  all  have  sipped  death's  cup  but  me ; 
And  soon  I  too  must  follow  on. 

To  scale  the  hills  of  yonder  moon. 
Which  is  our  destined  hunting-ground ; 

There  all  must  greet  old  chieftain  soon." 


ECLIPSE  OF  THE  SUN,  AUGUST  7,  1869. 


The  sun  now  hung  a  golden  fringe 
Around  the  edges  of  the  moon, 

And  cast  a  shadow  dark  and  dinge 

When  shades  of  night  were  not  in  tune. 


64  SONGS   OF    THE   AGE. 

The  stars  looked  through  a  gauzy  veil, 

Dim  shadows  walked  like  ghosts  at  night. 

And  darkness  spread  o'er  hill  and  dale ; 
The  heavens  burnt  a  hidden  light. 

The  earth  grew  strangely  pale  and  faint, 
The  trees  wore  robes  of  millet  green. 

The  hills  wore  crowns  like  tints  of  paint, 
The  rich-clad  valleys  trailed  between. 

The  birds  now  sung  their  evening  song, 
The  chickens  bid  the  day  good-bye, 

The  night-owl  hooted  gruff  and  strong, 
Because  the  moon  was  in  the  sky. 

But  soon  swept  on  a  daybreak  scene ; 

The  fowls  and  birds  saw  their  mistake ; 
The  earth  awoke  and  dressed  in  green, 

The  stars  went  out,  't  was  then  daybreak. 

The  owl  Avent  back  to  bed  again. 
The  rooster  blew  his  daybreak  horn, 

The  birds  sang  sweet  o'er  hill  and  glen, 
And  three  P.  M.  was  then  the  morn. 


SONGS   OF    THE   AGE.  65 

Mr.  Wm.  F.  Davis,  the  warrior  referred  to  in  the  follow- 
ing poem,  was  the  father  of  the  writer.  He  served  in  the 
War  of  1812,  in  the  command  of  General  Harrison. 

THE  WARRIOR'S   FOREST  HOME. 

Dedicated  to  President  Harrison. 


The  deathly  clash  of  war  had  ceased, 

The  Britain  boys  had  left  the  shore ; 
The  boys  of  ^12  were  all  released, 

The  cannon's  belch  was  heard  no  more. 
A  soldier  left  the  stage  of  war 

To  seek  a  home  'mid  forest  gloom, 
Where  oaks  eclipsed  the  morning  star. 

And  savage  beasts  had  made  their  home. 

A  wild  romantic  woodland  scene. 

Where  crystal  waters  murmured  low, 
And  mountain  peaks  were  ever  green 

Through  autumn  days  and  winter's  snow. 
No  mark  of  skill  in  all  that  land, 

No  woodsman  knew  the  winding  stream, 
But  shadows  fell  so  thick  and  grand. 

The  scene  was  more  a  fairy  dream. 


66  SONGS   OF   THE   AGE. 

That  valley  was  the  panther's  home, 

And  once  the  red  man's  hunting  ground, 
Where  squaws  and  warriors  used  to  roam, 

And  where  their  weapons  still  are  found. 
There  elk  and  deer,  wild  cats  and  bear. 

Grey  fox  and  wolves  were  found ; 
The  mink,  the  otter,  coon  and  hare. 

Red  fox  and  squirrel,  also  abound. 

And  yet  that  lone  ax-stroke  w^as  heard. 

And  giant  oaks  fell  to  the  ground. 
And  soon  a  cabin-hut  was  reared 

Amid  the  gloom  that  hung  around. 
The  warrior,  with  his  deathly  gun, 

Ee-echoed  thunder  through  that  land ; 
But  still  the  wolves  refused  to  run 

Until  they  saw  the  fiery  brand. 

With  hideous  howls  they  oft  would  come, 

When  sheep  were  in  their  rugged  pen, 
And  force  the  dogs  to  seek  a  home, 

Then  storm  the  fort  within  the  glen. 
The  old  cock  blew  his  daybreak  horn. 

The  hoot-owl  heard  his  homespun  note, 
And  then  away,  in  early  morn. 

To  seize  and  cut  the  stranger's  throat. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  67 

But  soon  the  varmints'  grand  retreat 

Were  rolling  fields  of  golden  grain, 
And  garden  beds  were  blooming  sweet 

Where  giant  oaks  had  just  been  slain. 
Though  first  to  mark  and  pave  the  way 

In  all  that  lonely  vale  of  gloom, 
That  Avarrior  lived,  when  old  and  gray, 

And  still  that  spot  was  then  his  home. 

'T  was  my  dear  home  in  childhood's  day ; 

There  sweetly  sung  the  lark  at  dawn. 
When  all  the  fields  were  green  in  May, 

And  frogs  were  croaking  in  the  pond. 
The  pheasant  hid  within  the  vale, 

And  bravely  beat  his  morning  drum ; 
While  in  the  stubble  perched  the  quail 

That  whistled  round  my  cottage  home. 

How  dear  those  childhood  scenes  are  now — 

The  old  gnarled  oak,  the  grassy  field. 
The  orchard  'neath  the  mountain  brow, 

The  little  brook  and  shady  mill. 
The  barn,  the  crib,  the  mossy  well, 

The  cottage  home,  the  crystal  stream. 
The  song  of  birds,  the  distant  bell — 

Kow  seems  as  but  a  placid  dream. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AGE. 


IN  HEAVEN  WE  SHALL  SEE  THEM. 


A  beauteous  child  was  Ida  V., 

Whose  dust  now  in  the  grave-yard  lies ; 
Her  rosy  cheeks  were  fair  to  see, 

And  bright  as  stars  her  dark  blue  eyes^ 
And  softly  curled  her  golden  hair, 

Like  gilded  clouds  in  distant  skies ; 
But  sadly  now  her  vacant  chair 

Stands  empty,  since  its  owner  dies. 

Like  music  soft,  we  heard  her  voice,. 

Like  angel  fair,  we  saw  her  form 
In  childish  play  and  sport  rejoice ; 

Alas !  from  us  too  soon  she's  torn. 
Oh!  could  we  see  that  dimpled  hand. 

Those  pleading  looks,  which  haunt  us  stilly 
As  she  asked  her  mamma,  from  the  pan 

Her  little  painted  cup  to  fill. 

Where  are  the  toys  with  which  she  played. 
Where  are  her  little  hat  and  dress  ? 

Her  toys  are  in  the  drawer  laid. 

With  hat  and  shoes,  and  all  the  rest. 


SONGS   OF    THE   AGE. 


I  know  for  her  we  shall  not  weep, 
For  doubtless  she  has  gone  to  rest ; 

Her  soul  in  silence  doth  not  sleep — 

God  called  her  home,  He  thought  it  best. 

Again,  a  dark  and  lonely  night. 

When  earth  and  air  were  hushed  and  still, 
In  shades  of  gloom  and  dim  moonlight, 

Again  death's  cup  for  us  was  filled. 
Around  the  snow^-white  couch  we  stood. 

And  w^atched  the  cheeks  in  death  turn  pale. 
And  tried  in  vain  to  give  relief, 

And  call  him  back  from  out  the  vale. 

A  lovely  boy,  two  summers'  old, 

Then  passed  from  us  and  earth  aw^ay ; 
How  soon  the  treasures  which  we  hold 

Slip  from  our  grasp,  and  seek  decay ! 
But  faith  beholds  these  loved  ones  fair. 

Those  Jew^els  which  our  hearts  have  worn. 
Transformed  into  a  lovely  pair 

Of  angels,  near  the  Father's  throne. 

It  sees  them  walk  the  gold-paved  streets, 
In  robes  of  glory,  hand  in  hand, 


70  SONGS   OF   THE   AGE. 

And,  with  the  sainted  ones,  there  meet 
Who  long  before  passed  to  that  land. 

It  sees  their  glory-gilded  wings, 

Their  golden  harps  and  starry  crown s^ 

And  hears  the  peaceful  songs  they  sing. 
Where  toil  and  pain  no  more  are  found. 


AUTUMN    DAYS. 

Dedicated  to  My  Youngest  Daughter,  Ethel, 


"Oh !  sing  to  me  of  Autumn  days, 

The  crowning  beauties  of  the  year, 
Where  eyes  can  feast  upon  the  haze 
Of  gold  and  crimson,  green  and  sear."^ 

How  can  we  sing  of  Autumn  days. 
When  Nature  robes  herself  to  die. 

Though  beauty  crowns  the  morning  rays, 
And  gold-tipped  mountains  kiss  the  sky  ? 

But  who  could  sing  of  beauty  now, 
Without  the  sadness  in  the  soul  ? 

When  hills  must  fade  from  foot  to  brow. 
And  dross  replenish  crowns  of  gold. 


SONGS   OF    THE   AGE.  71 

True,  beauty  lingers  on  each  hill, 
And  fills  the  soul  with  pure  delight ; 

But  there's  a  thought,  far  deeper  still : 
The  brightest  ray  must  end  in  night. 

The  crimson  hills  and  mountains  high, 

With  tints  of  gold  and  blendings  green. 
The  painter's  art  do  all  defy — 
'T  would  blush  to  even  sketch  the  scene. 

But  Nature  has  an  artist  old. 

Who,  with  a  finger's  touch  of  snow. 

He  sprinkles  earth,  tints  it  gold. 

And  paints  the  hills  and  valleys  low. 

But  soon  must  all  this  blush  of  gold 
And  fleecy  robe,  that  touch  the  sky, 

Fall  at  the  feet  "of  those  of  old. 

And  Nature's  beauty  then  must  die. 

The  author  of  the  above  lines  resides  in  the  mountains  of 
West  Virginia,  the  scenery  of  which-  conduces  to  the  lofty- 
flights  of  sublime  imagery.  The  soul  is  there  ever  thrilled 
by  those  scenes  which  superinduce  poetry  and  oratory. — 
Tom  Wash  Smith,  in  The  Baltimore  Herald. 


72  SONGS   OF    THE   AGE. 

PAYTON'S   RIDE. 

Dedicated  to  Mr.  Tom  Wash  Smith,  Editor  of  The  Baltimore  Herald. 


Far  up  the  stream  a  hero  stood, 
While  crushing,  rumbling,  came  the  flood ; 
With  steed  at  hand  he  mounted  high, 
Down,  down  the  stream  he  raised  the  cry: 
^^Fly  for  your  life ! '  the  flood  is  nigh ! 
The  lake's  death-w^ave  is  rolling  high !" 
On,  on  he  rode,  with  fearless  speed, 
While  frothing,  foaming,  flew  his  steed. 

Swift  on  his  track  came  rumbling  sounds ; 
High  on  the  wav(3S  came  floating  tow^ns, 
AVith  living,  dying,  and  the  dead,- 
And  shrieking,  crying,  on  they  sped. 
The  hero's  horse,  wdth  swdft-plied  feet, 
Flew  wildly  thro'  the  Johnstow^n  streets ; 
^^The  dam  has  burst !"  he  loudly  cried, 
"And  towns  are  floating  on  the  tide ! 

"Fly  for  your  life !  the  river's  wrath 
Is  sweeping  dowai  a  deadly  path !" 
And  onw^ard  flew^  the  hatless  man ; 

"Fly  for  your  life!  the  flood  's  at  hand!'' 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  73 

The  surging  crowd  rushed  out  to  see 
Who  this  wild  maniac  could  be ; 
No  one  knew  him,  and  some  few  fled, 
While  others,  smiling,  felt  no  dread. 

A  clash !  a  rush  !   a  sullen  roar ! 
Down  on  the  town  mad  waters  pour. 
Strong  buildings,  like  a  flimsey  shell, 
Went  crushing  as  the  current  fell. 
And,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
A  myriad  victims,  doomed  to  die, 
Were  struggling  'gainst  the  foaming  wrath 
Which  swallowed  all  within  its  path. 

Eine  parlors,  halls,  and  pleasant  homes. 
Were  swept  like  chaff  out  on  the  foam. 
Eich  daughters  grasped  their  bands  and  chains. 
And  diamond  rings,  and  life- time  gains ; 
And  lovely  mothers,  young  and  fair. 
And  aged  ones,  with  silvei-y  hair — 
All  struggling  in  the  deathly  waves 
Which  dealt  no  mercy  for  its  slaves. 

A  rumbling  roar,  a  grinding  sound  ; 

He  turned  his  steed  from  ill-fate  ground. 


74  SONGS   OF    THE   AGE. 

And  urged  him  on  for  nearest  hills — 
But  waves  had  crushed  the  town  and  mills. 
And  swept  them  on  tornado  speed, 
And  swallowed  up  the  foaming  steed. 
Brave  herald,  horse,  and  all,  went  down 
With  ruins  of  the  late  Johnstown. 

''God  save  the  rider !"  the  people  cried. 
As  he  went  flying  down  the  tide. 
The  prayer  was  heard — the  angry  wave 
Eelaxed  its  grip,  gave  up  the  brave 
Who  risked  his  life  to  warn  the  town. 
That  they  might  flee,  tho'  he  be  drowned. 
A  nobler  act,  or  famous  d^ed, 
Was  never  known  on  ship  or  steed. 

America  should  stamp  three  crowns — 

One  for  Sheridan,  one  for  Collens  Gray, 
And  one  for  Pay  ton,  who  warned  the  towns 

When  a  myriad  souls  were  swept  away. 
Let  history  now  record  his  name — 

A  Paul  Eevere,  a  hero  brave. 
Who  caps  the  pinnacle  of  fame 

By  swift-plied  feet  before  the  wave. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  75 

Mr.  Davis  has  a  true  harp  somewhere  in  the  reverberating 
valley  of  his  mountain  home.  He  writes  poetry  as  naturally 
as  a  brook  rolls  along  to  a  cascade,  some  of  which  will  live 
when  he  has  passed  away.  The  fearless  rider  who  carried 
the  signal  of  danger  to  the  innocent  victims,  all  unconscious 
of  impending  woe,  will  go  into  history  as  imperishable  as 
the  unwritten  law  of  human  emotion.  So  long  as  the  heart- 
beats count  quicker  numbers  at  the  recital  of  deeds  of  daring,, 
just  so  long  will  this  herald  of  danger  be  on  the  tongue  of 
thrilling  stories,  and  that  means  forever,  or  as  long  as  time 
knows  her  calendar.  Mr.  Davis  gives  out  a  hint  which  no 
doubt  is  in  crayon  sketches  in  many  a  studio  in  this  broad 
domain,  even  while  he  writes  of  it.  We  do  not  have  on  our 
walls  the  portrait  of  any  hero  of  ancient  or  modern  times. 
We  worship  God,  and  not  man  or  mammon.  But  when  the 
painter  gives  us  the  picture  of  that  messenger  riding  to  his 
death,  for  aught  he  knew,  that  others  might  live,  we  want 
a  copy  of  that  man  on  the  foaming  steed,  whose  deep  pathos 
is  the  strongest  evidence  of  the  heart  that  is  filled  with  rap- 
turous concern  for  the  weal  of  others ;  and  that  interest  is 
above  estimate,  for  it  is  the  affinity,  or  kinship,  of  man  with 
his  Maker,  or,  as  the  theologian  would  tell  you,  the  full  corn 
in  the  ear. — Tom  Wash  Smith,  in  The  Baltimore  Herald. 


76  SONGS   OF   THE    AGE. 

"The  Lonely  Window"  and  "The  Answer"  is  a  por- 
tion of  a  play  written  by  the  author  of  this  book,  in  which 
Mrs.  Taylor  Ward,  (then  about  twenty-one  years  of  age,) 
represented  "  Nellie,"  and  in  which  she  showed  remarkable 
talent  for  the  stage.  The  writer  of  the  play  represented 
""  Col.  Whitaker ;"  "  Nellie  "  and  himself  taking  the  leading 
parts,  assisted  by  twenty-two  ladies  and  gentlemen.  The 
play  represented  the  separation,  the  absence  of  three  years, 
and  the  return. 

THE    LONELY  WINDOW. 

Dedicated  to  Mrs.  Taylor  Ward. 


By  the  lonely  window  sit  I  here 

And  listen  to  the  autumn  sigh, 
While  shining  hosts  of  stars  so  fair, 

Bedeck  the  soft  ethereal  sky ; 
Their  beauties  call  to  mind  again 

The  absent  friend,  so  dear  to  me, 
Which  fills  my  lonely  heart  with  pain. 

And  wafts  my  thoughts  across  the  sea. 

I  watch  the  slowly  setting  sun. 

And  hail  with  joy  the  morning  ray. 

Each  moment  nearing  your  return ; 
Thus  time  drags  wearily  away ; 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  7T 

And  when  alone,  I  think  of  thee, 

And  pray  that  God  may  spare  your  life, 

And  guide  you  safely  back  to  me — 
Your  lonely  friend,  your  faithful  wife. 

And  in  the  silent  shades  of  night. 

When  gilded  moon  shines  soft  and  fair^ 
In  some  bright  dream  again  take  flight 

To  China — for  my  heart  is  there. 
But  when  I  waken  from  my  dream, 

I  find  a  lonely,  vacant  chair ; 
Oh !  could  I  fly  across  the  stream. 

How  gladly  would  I  meet  you  there. 


THE  ANSWER. 

SONG  OF  THE  SHIPWRECK. 


'T  was  calm  and  still  upon  the  sea. 
Blue  skies  without  a  cloud, 

x\nd  all  on  board  sang  merrily. 

While  through  the  deep  we  plowed ; 

But  soon  we  saw  terrific  clouds. 
And  vivid  lightning  flash  ; 


78  SONGS   OF   THE   AOE. 

'Xeath  thunder's  howl  the  ocean  bow'd, 

And  waves  began  to  splash ; 
Then  mid-night  darkness 

Eclipsed  the  noon-day  sun, 
While  mountain  waves  came  rolling  back, 

And  lo !  our  sails  were  gone. 

But  still  we  heard  the  thunder's  roar 

Amid  the  wind-torn  clouds, 
While  rain  in  torrents  downward  pour'd. 

And  every  knee  was  bow'd ; 
We  sank  beneath  the  rolling  waves 

Which  swept  our  naked  deck. 
Then  rose  again,  and  all  were  saved. 

Though  but  a  fearful  wreck. 
Then  raging  billows 

Swept  us  on  the  shore. 
It  seem'd  that  all  the  timbers  broke. 

Amid  one  crash  and  roar. 

We  drifted  there  upon  the  shore. 
When  starving  seem'd  our  doom, 

It  was  an  isle  w^here  long  before 
A  crew  was  left  to  roam. 

Their  bleaching  bones  were  near  the  wreck. 
Their  sails  had  crumbled  down. 


SONGS  OF   THE   AGE.  79 

And  just  beneath  the  shattered  deck 
Their  pearls  and  gold  were  found. 

Oh !  horrid  picture, 

Which  hangs  on  that  dread  shore, 

It  seemed  our  doom  was  sure  the  ^anie, 
(Three  hundred  men  or  more). 

Por  days  we  watched  the  rolling  sea, 

With  but  scant  rations  drawn, 
When  lo !  the  flag  of  liberty 

Was  seen  in  early  dawn ; 
They  were  my  faithful  navy  boys. 

In  search  of  our  lost  crew. 
Whose  hearts  were  glad  and  full  of  joy. 

When  near  our  wreck  they  drew. 
Out  on  the  ocean 

Again  we  quickly  sailed, 
With  milk  and  wine  our  bowls  to  fill. 

While  we  rove  through  the  gale. 

We  then  returned  to  China's  shore, 

With  gems  which  we  had  found 
While  on  this  isle,  where  long  before 

A  wreck  was  thrown  aground. 
But  now  my  thoughts  return  to  thee ; 

Sure  I  would  give  my  gold 


80  SONGS   OF   THE   AGE. 

To  hear  thee  speak  one  word  to  me^ 
Or  half  thy  charms  behokl. 

Oh  I  clearest  Nellie, 
Do  not  weep  for  me, 

The  time  is  short  when  I  again 
Your  lovely  face  shall  see. 

My  dearest  wife,  weep  not  for  me. 

My  stay  will  soon  be  o'er, 
Then  I  shall  plow  the  rolling  sea. 

To  my  loved  native  shore. 
I  long  to  meet  with  you,  my  dear^ 

Thy  lovely  features  trace. 
And  wipe  away  the  briny  tears 

That  stealeth  down  thy  face. 
Then,  dearest  Nellie, 

Do  not  weep  for  me. 
My  vessel  soon  shall  plow  again 

The  rough  and  rolling  sea. 


SONGS  OF   THE   AGE.  81 


DEAR    BESSIE   OF  OHIO. 


^o\v,  boys  and  girls,  this  is  for  you, 
And  sure  it  is  a  story  true, 
The  cause  for  it  we  could  not  tell — 
Perhaps  some  owl  knew  very  well. 
'T  was  night,  and  I  accompanied  late 
Miss  Bessie,  of  Ohio  State. 
Dear  Bessie  was  a  pretty  girl, 
I  loved  her  best  in  all  the  world. 

As  I  was  young,  and  knew  no  better. 
And  she  disposed  to  chat  still  later. 
My  love  grew  deeper  all  the  while — 
Por  she  was  witty,  and  dressed  in  style — 
And  on  her  smiles  she  wore  a  charm. 
Which  plainly  said  she  knew  no  harm ; 
So  Cupid's  arrow,  first  and  last, 
Had  pierced  my  heart  and  bound  it  fast. 

For  hours  the  folks  had  gone  to  bed — 
Her  mother's  room  just  over  head — 
The  clock  had  marked  the  hour  of  ten. 
When  flying,  squalling,  came  a  hen, 
Came  dashing  'gainst  the  parlor  door ; 
Then  all  was  still,  we  heard  no  more ; 


82  SONGS   OP    THE   AGE.    ^ 

A  flying  turkey  thumped  the  wall, 
And  on  the  ground  we  heard  it  fall. 

Another  fell,  thump  !  in  the  yard. 
Her  mother  screamed,  "Oh,  my  dear  Lord  I 
For  God's  sake,  Bessie,  go  and  see 
What  all  that  clattering  can  be !" 
Then  flying  guineas  made  such  a  noise, 
Disturbed  the  slumber  of  the  boys ; 
With  lamp  in  hand,  they  all  came  down. 
Old  lady  in  a  long  white  gown. 

Then  Bessie,  dear,  to  my  surprise. 
Hung  her  sweet  hands  close  o'er  my  eyes ; 
But  in  the  yard  they  hunted  round, 
And  turkeys,  chickens,  guineas  found; 
Some  were  dead,  and  some  were  dying. 
Others  squalling,  others  flying ; 
But,  all  in  all,  it  was  a  time 
I  never  told,  but  now,  in  rhyme. 

But,  as  the  ages  creep  along, 
I  place  dear  Bessie  in  my  song. 
And  take  a  glimpse  back  in  the  past. 
When  loved  her  first  and  loved  her  last. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  83 

Did  I  go  back,  yon  mean  to  say  ? 
Oh  no !  ne'er  saw  her  from  that  day, 
But  often  wished  to  be  surprised 
By  her  sweet  hands  hnng  o'er  my  eyes. 

But  then,  perhaps,  if  we  should  meet. 
The  fowls  might  flutter  at  our  feet, 
A  sacrificial  offer  make. 
To  mean  their  dying  for  our  sake  ; 
But  let  the  cause  be  what  it  might, 
The  trouble  came  that  fatal  night. 
And  we  took  warning,  there  and  then. 
To  never,  never  meet  again. 

Now,  boys,  this  is  a  hint  for  you. 
And  sure  it  is  a  story  true. 
For  Cupid's  arrow,  like  a  dart. 
Goes  piercing  thro'  the  youthful  heart. 
But  leaves  behind  a  road  of  thorns, 
Never  stops  and  never  warns, 
But,  like  the  story  I  have  told, 
Oft  leaves  its  victims  in  the  cold. 

You  know  the  welcome  strains  of  our  Highland  friend, 
whose  songs  are  so  full  of  pathos  and  happy  symphony.  We 
wish  he  would  write  more  frequently.— Tom  Wash  Smith, 
in  The  Baltimore  Herald. 


84  SONGS   OF   THE    AGE. 

CENTENNIAL  YEARS. 

Dedicated  to  My  Son-in-Law,  Attorney  A.  L.  Taylor. 


As  time  moves  on,  from  stage  to  stage, 
The  great  events  of  years  gone  by 

Live  in  the  heart  of  this  great  age 
As  treasured  gifts  from  God  on  high. 

Centennial  Year  of  Seventy-Six 

Was  crowned  with  arts  from  all  the  world, 

And  kings  and  statesmen  intermixed 
'Neath  freedom's  flag,  proudly  unfurled. 

And  all  the  nations,  far  and  near, 

Loaned  helping  hands  to  celebrate 
Events  of  that  Centennial  Year 

Which  formed  the  great  United  States. 
Our  flag,  in  years  one  hundred  old. 

There  waved  o'er  greatest  skill  on  earth. 
While  kingly  nations,  grand  and  old. 

Were  dross  beside  our  nation's  worth. 

The  Corliss,  run  by  Fulton's  steam. 
The  nations  spoke  by  Morse's  wire ; 

Now  Edison  sends  a  wond'rous  gleam 
More  brilliant  than  the  sun  or  fire. 


SONGS   OI*'   THE   AGE.  85 

The  crown  is  due  Columbia's  land 
For  use  of  steam  and  lightning  wire, 

The  telephone,  from  Edison's  hand, 
And  city  lights  by  friction  fire. 

The  next  in  turn  comes  Eighty-Nine, 

The  President  Centennial  Year, 
Events  of  which  may  now  remind 

'  The  Revolutionary  tear. 
'T  was  then  the  mighty  hero  came 

Who  led  the  great  victorious  war — 
He  figured  high  in  national  fame 

To  shield  the  flag  which  bore  the  stars. 

He  comes  through  towns  ablaze  with  fire. 

His  path  is  strewn  with  maiden's  flowers. 
Triumphant  arches  fringed  on  wire. 

In  honor  of  the  eventful  hours. 
He  comes,  the  mighty  Father  comes. 

Vast  armies  crowd  and  cannons  roar. 
The  way  is  cheered  by  fife  and  drum 

And  armies  that  he  led  before. 

He  comes — he  steps  upon  the  stage, 
He  takes  the  oath  as  Freedom's  King, 


86  SONGS   OF   THE   AGE. 

Or  Euler,  of  that  happy  age 

When  freedom's  songs  began  to  ring. 

He  comes — four  million  freemen  stand 
To  welcome  him  who  victories  won, 

And  severed  Britain's  iron  band — 

He  comes — and  lo !  't  is  Washi:n'GTO]s^  ! 

And  now  the  Century  Year  is  done ; 

A  sixty  million  nation  hails 
With  pride  the  day  its  years  begun, 

When  Federal  Hall  the  Chief  unveiled. 
From  thence  the  national  sky  was  clear. 

The  ship,  complete,  launched  on  the  seas, 
And  now  she's  sailed  one  hundred  years. 

With  victory  cf^owning  every  breeze. 

All  hail !  Columbia's  Freedom  hail ! 

Let  now  another  century  run. 
And  may  the  ship  stem  every  gale 

And  warlike  storm  that  clouds  her  sun, 
'Till  kingly  crowns  shall  rust  and  fall. 

And  monarchs  blush  with  national  shame. 
And  may  the  Goddess  grow  so  tall 

That  all  the  world  may  see  the  flame. 


SONGS   OP   THE   AGE.  87 

DISCOVERY  OF   ELK  CREEK. 


Through  dreamy  woods  two  hunters  strolled, 

Where  man  had  never  trod  before, 
And  through  the  forest,  gray  and  old, 

A  river  bent  around  the  shore ; 
And  as  they  neared  the  silvery  stream. 

They  looked  down  thro'  the  mossy  wood. 
And  in  the  centre  of  the  scene 

A  herd  of  forest  cattle  stood. 

The  woodsman  fired ;  one,  bleeding,  fell ; 

They  slightly  stirred,  but  no  alarm, 
Whence  came  the  roar  they  could  not  tell, 

But  never  dreamed  of  slightest  harm. 
They  knew  not  death  by  weapons  small ; 

They  often  heard  the  thunder's  roar. 
And  rumbling  timbers  as  they  fell — 

But  deadly  rifles,  ne'er  before. 

Again  they  fired,  and  still  they  fell ; 

They  heard  their  bleeding  comrades  groan. 
But  how  came  death  they  could  not  tell. 

Yet  all  the  herd  was  dead  save  one; 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE. 

He  shook  his  woolly  mane  and  fled. 
Affrighted  by  the  odious  smell, 

But  circled  round  his  bleeding  dead ; 
The  woodsman  fired,  the  seventh  felL 

And  then  they  neared  the  river's  shore. 

Which  bent  its  course  thro'  forests  deep. 
Where  man  had  never  roamed  before. 

And  all  the  forests  seemed  to  sleep. 
The  timbers  bent  far  o'er  the  stream. 

And  clustered  down  the  rustic  shore. 
The  noon-day  sun  was  but  a  gleam 

Through  forest  shades  in  streaks  to  pour. 

"Hoo,  hoo-hoo,  hoo,  wah !"  cried  the  owl. 

Arousing  from  his  sleepy  den ; 
The  wolf  had  raised  a  hideous  howl, 

The  panther  screamed  at  sight  of  men ; 
Thousands  of  years  those  vales  had  slept. 

Yet  murmuring  rivers  still  had  flown. 
Bright  Summer  smiled  and  Winter  swept 

O'er  lands  of  mineral,  oil  and  stone. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  89 

SON    BILLY. 


When  scorching  fever  seized  my  head, 

Son  Billy  kindly  came  to  me, 
He  thought  it  was  my  dying  bed. 
And  he  a  farm  could  plainly  see. 
"Dear  father,  how  are  you  ?"  he  said ; 
"Do  you  my  aid  or  presence  need  ?'^ 
He  knew  of  my  unconscious  head — 
He  asked  me  then  to  make  a  deed. 

I  knew  not  what  my  hand  had  done 

Until  my  raging  fever  ceased; 
Ah !  soon  my  troubles  then  begun, 

And  long  adieu  was  bid  to  peace. 
Son  Billy  came  to  me  one  day — 

^T  was  at  my  quiet  home  of  ease — 
He  told  me  there  I  could  not  stay, 

But  pull  my  stakes  and  leave  the  keys. 

I  asked  Son  Billy  what  he  meant, 

Thus  driving  me  from  friends  and  home  ? 
"You  have  no  means  to  pay  your  rent. 
So  Tom,  my  son,  has  fixed  to  come." 


^)0  SONGS   OP    THE    AGE. 

I  told  Son  Billy  't  was  my  home, 
That  I  should  never,  never  go. 

Said  he,  "My  deed  has  sealed  your  doom. 
And  I  will  shortly  let  you  know." 

I  asked  him  what  he  meant  by  deed, 

When  from  his  pocket  he  withdrew 
A  paper,  and  said,  "Now  take  heed 
While  I  this  writing  read  to  you." 
^^My  God !"  said  I,  "is  that  my  hand  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Bill,  "  't  is  even  true." 
^'So  you  are  owner  of  my  land, 
And  not  a  cent  to  me  is  due !" 

I  'then  revealed  this  to  my  wife. 

For  she  was  old  and  feeble,  too. 
And  had  no  means  to  sustain  life. 

And  not  a  cent  to  her  was  due ; 
But  yet  Son  Billy  drove  us  out 

To  seek  a  home  where'er  we  could ; 
AYe  knew  not  how  to  go  about 

To  beg  for  lodging,  clothes  and  food. 

But  friends  then  told  us  what  to  do : 
We  sued  Son  Billy  for  our  farm ; 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  91 

And  then  he  said,  "Now,  as  't  is  you, 
I'll  feed  and  clothe  yon ;  fear  no  harm." 

So  Tom  gave  up  our  house  again, 
And  gladly  we  returned  once  more ; 

Eut  Billy  still  kept  all  our  land. 
And  used  us  worse  than  e'er  before. 

For  years  we  lived  in  sore  distress, 

Half  clothed,  half  fed ;  and  Billy  said 
It  cost  too  much  to  keep  us  dressed. 

And  often  wished  we  both  were  dead. 
My  wife  was  good  and  kind  to  me. 

Provided  meals  as  best  she  could, 
Eut  tears  would  start  sometimes  at  tea. 

When  table  scant  before  us  stood. 

At  last  wife's  son,  who  knew  the  way 

Son  Billy  always  treated  us, 
dame  for  my  dear  to  go  away. 

And  rid  her  of  the  lasting  fuss. 
I  could  not  say,  "dear  wife,  don't  go"; 

ISTo,  I  preferred  to  die  alone. 
That  we  might  not  grieve  Billy  so 

To  dig  both  graves  and  spare  the  room. 


92  SONGS   OF   THE   AGE. 

My  life  was  spent  a  home  to  gain, 

But  now,  because  my  head  is  gray,. 
A  bed  of  thorns  to  ease  my  pain, 

A  frown,  a  curse,  a  rent  to  pay. 
The  heathen  mobs  respect  gray  hairs, 

The  savage  beasts  have  hearts  within. 
But  aged  parents,  bent  with  cares. 

Are  drove  from  home  without  a  sin. 


KITTY  AND  THE   MOUSE. 


"Oh !  ma,  my  little  kitty 

To-day  brought  in  a  micGy 
It  never  looked  so  pretty, 

And  never  played  so  nice. 
The  mouse  would  skip  around,. 

My  kitty  then  would  run 
And  box  the  fellow  down. 

Yet  did  it  all  in  fun. 

"The  mouse  was  swift  to  learn. 
And  then  it  stood  on  end. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  98 

And  tried  to  box  in  turn, 

Himself  thus  to  defend. 
I  wish  you'd  seen  it,  ma. 

For  it  from  end  to  end 
Was  less  than  kitty's  paw. 

Yet  ready  to  defend. 

•'I'm  sure  my  kitty  laughed. 

To  see  its  tiny  feet 
Half  lifted,  in  behalf 

The  fate  it  feared  to  meet. 
Then  mousey  bounced  around, 

And  kitty  boxed  his  tail. 
But  soon  a  hole  was  found. 

And  mouse  slipped  kitty's  nail. 

"Poor  kitty  looked  so  bad, 

I'm  sure  't  was  almost  sick. 
But  I  was  really  glad 

The  mouse  had  played  the  trick, 
For  cruel  little  kitty. 

It  loves  to  skip  and  play, 
And  never  stops  to  pity 

Whate'er  should  be  its  prey." 


94  SONGS   OF   THE   AGE. 

ON    RECEIVING   HER   PICTURE. 

Dedicated  to  Mrs.  Brell  Corpning. 


Alas !  Earth^s  brightest  gem  is  gone ; 

And  once  again  the  tolling  bell 
For  her  was  rung,  so  loud  and  long, 

The  mountains  echoed  back  farewell. 

While  sadness  filled  the  dreamy  air, 
And  fields  of  nature  seemed  to  mourn,. 

Because  the  belle  of  all  the  fair 

From  earth  and  friends  away  was  torn. 

Alas !  alas !  she  sleepeth  now. 

Amid  the  tombs  beneath  the  clay. 

While  golden  locks  bedeck  the  brow. 
So  pale  and  fleeting  fast  away. 

This  mirrored  shadow  of  that  form. 
Though  sweetly  fair,  with  ringlets  gold,. 

Is  but  a  feint  of  nature's  charm, 
W^ith  eyes  revealing  love  untold. 

Oh,  piercing  eyes !  my  very  soul 

^ow  shrinks  beneath  thy  ardent  gaze,. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  95 

For  all  thy  cliarms  I  still  beheld, 
And  read  in  them  of  gone-by  days. 

The  days  when  Cupid's  magic  power 
Had  stamped  this  inrage  on  my  heart,. 

And  in  return  that  blissful  hour, 
She  took  with  me  a  lover's  part. 

Though  lovers  still  were  only  friends,, 

Yet  of  a  stamp  forever  true. 
But  fate  decrees  and  friendship  ends,. 

Still  forms  appear  in  brighter  hue. 


LAMENTATION. 

Dedicated  to  Mrs.  Charley  Hill,  Gallipolis,  Ohio.. 


We  often  shed  a  burning  tear 
When  thinking  o'er  the  past ; 

While  friends  so  dear  doth  linger  near„ 
Sad  thoughts  come  rushing  fast. 

Amid  the  thorny  branch  we  find 
Sweet  flowers  fresh  and  gay ; 


S6  SONGS   OF    THE   AGE. 

So  kindred  friends,  beloved  and  kind, 
Make  bright  the  gloomy-  day. 

There  's  something  in  a  kindred  love 
That  words  cannot  express ; 

We  feel  this  pang  when  dear  ones  leave- 
Bound  for  the  "Golden  West" 

Yet,  fated  thus,  it  seems  to  be 

That  friends  most  dear  must  part ; 

So  chilling  sighs  are  felt  for  thee. 
And  sadness  fills  the  heart. 

That  merry  birds  may  sweetly  sing, 
And  flowers  look  fresh  and  gay ; 

Yet  painful  partings  leave  a  sting 
For  time  to  wear  away. 

The  rose-tint  cloud  in  beauty  swells 

Beneath  the  starry  gleam. 
Then  vanish,  like  that  hope  which  tells 

Us  pleasure  's  but  a  dream. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  97 

THE  AMERICAN  EAGLE. 


This  nation's  bird  a  liome  doth  seek 

Where  craggy  cliffs  stand  towering  high, 
And  honors  bnt  the  hoary  peaks 

That  seem  to  kiss  the  distant  sky ; 
And  when  she  spreads  her  golden  wings 

To  bear  her  onward  through  the  gale, 
She  soars  away  beyond  the  ring 

Of  village  bells  throughout  the  vale. 

This  was  her  home  when  heathen  gloom 

Had  run  its  course  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  nations  dreamed  there  was  no  room 

To  plant  a  flag  of  liberty ; 
But  sons  of  England  plowed  the  wave. 

And  pitched  their  tent  in  heathen  lands. 
While  England  followed  to  enslave. 

And  bound  them  Avith  her  iron  bands. 

In  cabin  homes  for  years  they  dwelt, 
While  bowing  to  the  British  crown ; 

Oppression  sore,  long  years  they  felt. 
Till  yielding  place  no  more  they  found. 


98  SONGS   OF   THE   AGE. 

With  one  accord  they  boldly  spoke, 

And  cried  aloud  for  liberty ; 
Determined  to  throw  off  the  yoke, 

And  lighting,  die,  or  else  be  free. 

With  Washington  placed  at  the  head, 

The  father  of  our  happy  land. 
The  starry  blue  and  eagle  led 

That  gallant  little  patriot  band. 
They  saw  old  Britain's  flashing  steel, 

And  heard  the  cannon's  sullen  roar ; 
Yet  dashed  they  o'er  the  gory  Held 

With  shouts  of  "  Onward  to  the  shore !" 

The  God  of  Victory  crowned  their  blows. 

They  drove  them  back  o'er  land  and  sea. 
They  humbled  low  our  haughty  foes, 

And  gave  this  land  to  liberty. 
Thus  brave  and  true,  with  numbers  small. 

They  drove  the  British  from  our  shore. 
And  raised  our  eagle  banner  tall. 

That  here  shall  wave  forever  more. 

She  led  them  through  the  cruel  war. 
To  victory's  undying  fame. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  99 

And  then  amid  the  thirteen  stars 
She  perched  to  rest  and  to  remain. 

May  God  forbid  that  she  shall  fall 
Disgracefully  and  lose  her  trust, 

Or  freedom's  banner,  shield  of  all, 
Be  soiled  or  trampled  in  the  dust. 

For  it  protects  brave  freedom's  land, 

The  proudest  nation  in  the  world. 
The  States  are  knit  by  union  band. 

And  pledged  to  keep  the  stripes  unfurled. 
The  roaring  tide  of  wealth  rolls  on 

From  State  to  State,  and  sea  to  sea. 
And  as  the  sun  crowns  each  new  dawn, 

New  millions  crown  homes  of  the  free. 

We  envy  our  poet  friend;  his  home  is  soul-inspiring,  and 
we  cannot  wonder  that  he  should  occasionally  strike  his 
harp  with  metres  akin  to  immortal  bards  of  sculptured 
fame. — Tom  Wash  Smith,  in  The  Baltijiiore  Herald. 


100  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 


T  IS   MY  ONLY   KITTY,   MOTHER. 


Tune— "Infant  School." 

Now  is  it  not  a  pity, 

For  a  little  child  as  I, 
To  send  my  little  kitty 

Out  in  the  cold  to  cry  ? 

Chorus. — Oh !  I  can't  let  it  go, 

Out  in  the  cold  and  snow ; 
I  love  my  little  kitty  so, 
I  cannot  let  her  go. 

Oh !  mother,  please  to  let  it  be. 

It  sings  to  me  so  sweet. 
And  in  the  morning  you  shall  see 

It  prance  around  my  feet. 

Cho. — Oh !  I  can't  let  it  go,  &c. 

It  lays  its  feet  upon  my  breast. 
And  sleeps  with  me  content. 

Now,  mother,  how  could  kitty  rest. 
If  in  the  snow  its  sent? 

Cho. — Oh !  I  can't  let  her  go,  &c. 


SONGS    OF    THE    AGE.  101 

You  know  that  kitty  catches  mice, 

Out  'neath  the  old  barn  floor, 
Then  skips  along  o'er  snow  and  ice, 

To  reach  my  bed-room  door. 

Cho.— Oh  !  I  can't  let  her  go,  &c. 

Then  cover  up  your  kitty  dear, 

I  could  not  make  it  go. 
And  have  my  darling  Avaste  a  tear 

For  kitty  in  the  snow. 

Cho. — No,  I  can't  make  it  go, 

And  grieve  my  darling  so ; 
You  love  your  little  kitty  so, 
I  can't  make  it  go. 

I  thank  yon  now,  my  dearest  mother, 

And  kitty  thanks  you,  too. 
For  it  will  sleep  with  me  and  brother. 

While  papa  sleeps  with  you. 
Cho. — For  I  can't  let  it  go,  &c. 


102  BONGS    OF    THE    A(IE. 

MYSTERY. 

A  Scene  on  the  Writer's  Farm. 


A  little  brook,  with  beauties  grand, 

Comes  rippling  from  a  mountain  spring. 

And  winds  its  way  o'er  stone  and  sand 

Through  woods  where  birds  melodious  sing. 

Through  time  unknown  to  days  of  man. 
This  murmuring  stream  has  found  its  way, 

And  cut  a  ravine  through  the  land, 
A  link  in  nature's  grand  display. 

And  interwoven  timber  bends 
In  wreathy  arches  o'er  the  walls, 

Through  which  this  little  brook  descends. 
To  make  its  leap  down  o'er  tlie  falls. 

It  rushes  down  its  winding  stair, 
A  bold  and  sparkling  silvery  sheet ; 

It  sends  its  mist  into  the  air. 
And  forms  a  rainbow  at  its  feet. 

By  little  streams  the  chasm  cliff 
Is  worn  to  grains  of  drifting  sand. 

And  angry  waters  foam  and  drift 

Through  wonderous  wall  not  made  by  hand. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  103 

And  man  looks  back  throngh  time  unknown 
To  date  the  wonderous  streamlet  hand, 

Which  sculptured  chasm  wall  of  stone, 
And  wore  its  chips  to  grains  of  sand. 

But  could  the  work  a  life  had  done 

Be  seen  by  eyes  of  mortal  man. 
The  sands  that  crumble  one  by  one 

Could  equal  not  the  busy  hand. 

Though  life  is  short,  man  leaves  the  stage. 
As  though  his  wonderous  work  was  done. 

Another  man,  another  age. 

Proves  that  his  work  has  just  begun. 

So  like  the  mystic  cataract  stream 

Which  flows  a  myriad  years  through  sand, 

The  world  's  adrift  by  light  and  stream, 
The  work  of  ages,  brain  and  hand. 


104  SONGS    OF    THE    AGE. 


THE   MAN   WHO   NEVER  STOPS  TO  THINK. 


The  man  who  never  stops  to  think, 
Nor  count  the  valued  time  that 's  lost, 

Oft  chews  tobacco,  smokes  or  drinks. 
Regardless  of  result  or  cost. 

The  man  who  never  stops  to  think 
Just  how  to  manage  business  best. 

Rush  heedless  down  the  ruinous  brink 
Of  bankruptcy  and  un success. 

The  man  who  never  stops  to  think 

How  much  he  spends  or  what  he  makes, 

Is  apt  to  make  a  gradual  sink 

Down,  drifting  to  a  ruinous  break. 

The  man  who  never  stops  to  think 
That  educated  men  must  work. 

Is  wasting  time  with  all  fools  in 

Just  learning  how  with  ease  to  clerk. 


SONGS   OF    THE    AOE.  105 


A  LESSON. 


A  lesson  might  be  learned  from  word : 
A  large  fine  steer  within  my  herd 
Stands  near  the  stack,  and  never  bawls, 
But  watch  the  fork,  when  first  it  falls. 
He  stands  by  the  first  bunch  of  hay. 
While  others  hook  around  and  play ; 
He  never  runs  and  tramps  around. 
And  tramps  the  hay  in  muddy  ground ; 
He  eats,  while  others  run  and  bawl. 
And  seeks  for  bunches  not  so  small. 
He's  always  fat,  smooth,  sleek  and  round. 
While  others  lank  would  seem  unsound. 
A  lesson  here  there  is  no  doubt. 
If  you  will  try  to  find  it  out. 


■    M/.  I 


RKRT   III. 


Jin 


107 


MRS.   JOSIE   B.   TAYLOR. 


Songs  of  the  Age. 


THE   BRIDE'S   FAREWELL. 

Dedicated  to  Mj-  Daughter,  Mrs.  Josie  B.  Taylok. 


109 


Fare  thee  well,  my  dearest  mother, 

Love's  strange  fancy  bids  me  go  ; 
Sad  to  leave  thee  for  another, 

Yet  I  could  not  answer  no. 
Friends  most  dear  now  linger  round  me. 

Oh !  this  pain  words  cannot  tell ; 
Childhood's  home,  how  dear  I  love  thee, 

Yet  I  bid  thee  all  farewell. 

Kindred  friends  and  friends  of  childhood, 

And  the  scenes  I  loved  so  well. 
Cluster  round  me  like  the  Avildwood 

Fringing  round  tlie  little  dell. 
Golden  forest  of  the  highland. 

Spring  time  birds  Avith  thrilling  song, 
Bold  rushing  stream  o'er  bars  and  sand, 

Cheered  my  life  when  years  seemed  long. 


110  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

The  landscape  painting  'gainst  the  wall, 

Beneath  the  frescoed  ceiling, 
Which  made  impressions  while  yet  small, 

Before  my  eyes  are  stealing. 
Yet  I  must  leave  thee,  and  forever. 

Trust  myself  to  another's  care. 
Yet  our  hearts  we  cannot  sever, 

I  shall  ever  love  thee  dear. 

Then,  dear  mother,  will  you  miss  me. 

When  the  well  known  lamps  are  lit, 
And  will  you  wait  for  me  at  tea 

When  the  table  chairs  are  set? 
Though  I  shall  not  hear  thy  sweet  voice. 

While  with  new  friends  I  may  roam. 
Yet  shall  be  happy  with  my  choice. 

And  wish  for  thee  at  my  home. 


SONGS   OP    THE   AGE.  HI 

MAMMOTH   CAVE. 


Beneath  the  rock,  dark  as  the  grave, 

Where  endless  rivers  flow, 
Kentucky  boasts  the  Mammoth  Cave, 

And  waters  pure  as  snow. 

1^0  eye  hath  seen  its  fountain  rise. 
Yet  fish  swim  in  the  stream — 

But  destitute  are  they  of  eyes, 
For  light  hath  never  gleamed. 

It  is  a  world  within  a  world. 
And  who  can  tell  how  vast ; 

Twelve  miles  exploring  crews  unfurled 
Their  banner  in  the  past. 

A  voice  of  many  waters  speak 
Of  danger  'neath  the  walls. 
And  further  man  would  fear  to  seek, 
'Mid  caves  and  roaring  falls. 

What  style  of  man  beyond  the  shore 
Of  that  dark,  raging  stream, 

Is  for  the  Fairies  to  explore. 
And  paint  in  golden  dream. 


112  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 


UNCLE  SAM. 


Now,  Uncle  Sam  a  bride  he  took, 
To  represent  his  wealth  and  pride ; 

She  turns  the  pages  of  his  book, 
And  finds  no  nation  by  his  side. 

She  stands  arrayed  in  bridal  robe. 

The  style  of  crown  she  there  would  bring, 

She  looks  out  over  all  the  globe. 

And  plucks  a  quill  from  eagle's  wing. 

She  looks  above  our  nation's  head. 
The  nation's  emblem  there  unfurled ; 

She  reads  the  lines — blue,  white  and  red — 
The  proudest  nation  of  the  world. 

The  Goddess  standing  by  her  side 

Sends  light  of  freedom  o'er  the  world  ; 

She  looks  away  across  the  tide. 

To  bless  the  flag  that  France  unfurled. 

And  so  they  standeth,  three  in  one, 
Representing  power,  wealth  and  fame. 

To  hold  the  Union  as  begun, 
But  adding  fuel  to  the  flame. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  113 

Old  England's  envy  liveth  long, 
And  Uncle  Sam  doth  know  it  well ; 

He  stands,  with  sixty  millions  strong, 
Her  useless  noise  and  boasts  to  quell. 

The  Lion  stands  on  England's  shore, 

Growling  at  the  American  Bear ; 
The  Bear  fears  not  his  hideous  roar. 

While  Stars  and  Stripes  float  in  the  air. 


SOUTH   CAROLINA'S  FIRST   BALL. 


At  Washington,  in  Relic  Hall, 
Amid  the  relics  quaint  and  old, 

We  saw  Carolina's  challenge  ball. 

Which  set  the  war  train,  death,  to  roll. 

Two  balls  flew  from  two  warriors'  guns — 
One  from  the  Gray,  one  from  the  Blue- 
Met  in  the  air,  weld  into  one, 

Symboling  North  and  South  anew.     ^ 


114  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

THE  AWAKENING  OF  THE  SOUL. 

Presented  to  Rev.  J.  L.  Hoffman,  A.  M. 


The  silvery  dew-drops  kissed  the  rose, 
Then  slyly  steals  Avithin  its  fold, 

To  wake  it  from  its  sweet  repose, 
And  variegate  with  rain-bow  gold. 

The  voice  of  conscience,  ever  still, 
Yet  whispers  to  the  sin-dark  soul ; 

The  soul  awake,  with  love  is  filled. 
And  heavenly  pages  unfold. 

The  germ  which  seemingly  was  dead. 

Like  rose-buds,  which  the  dew-drops  kiss. 

Awakes  to  feed  on  living  bread 

And  drink  the  wine  of  heavenly  bliss. 


SONGS   OP   THE   AGE.  -  115 

Had  I  the  oratorical  powers  of  a  Webster,  and  the  genius 
of  a  Shakespeare,  I  could,  never  paint  the  scene  nor 
describe  the  sweet  and  charming  ring  of  the  song,  as  it 
appeared  in  this  wonderful  dream.  It  was  simply  beyond 
all  human  imagination. 


STRANGE    BUT  TRUE. 

Presented  to  Prof.  Rufus  Holden. 


Once  in  the  silent  shades  of  dream, 
I  saw  a  strange  but  glorious  sight : 

A  silvery  cloud  hung  in  a  gleam, 

The  heavens  burnt  with  golden  light. 

The  clouds  moved  slowly  in  the  sky, 
But  grading  down,  adown  it  came ; 

A  moment  then,  and  stopped  on  high, 
And  disappeared  like  blown-out  flame. 

It  left  a  troop  on  angel  wings. 

Who,  like  a  cloud,  slight  seemed  to  rise ; 
They  tuned  their  silvery  tongues  to  sing. 

While  floating  through  the  golden  skies : 


116  SONGS   OF   THE   AGE. 

"I  will  arise  and  go  to  Jesus ; 

He  will  embrace  me  in  His  arms ; 
In  the  arms  of  my  dear  Saviour, 

Oh !  there  are  ten  thousand  charms." 

Oh !  Lord,  that  I  could  sing  that  song  ; 

That  men  of  earth  might  hear  the  sound 
As  it  reached  from  that  throng, 

While  up  they  rose  and  circled  round. » 

Their  song  is  one  we  know  so  well. 
And  often  sung  at  church  by  choir. 

When  new-born  souls  their  glory  tell, 
As  light  gleams  from  the  heavenly  fire. 

Their  song  grew  loud,  and  louder  still; 

My  soul  was  charmed  with  sound  and  sight ; 
Their  golden  wings,  slight  moved  at  will. 

Their  brightness  burnt  the  shades  of  night. 

Then  round  and  round,  away  on  high. 
Their  song  grew  faint,  but  sweeter  still ; 

They  climbed  the  stairway  of  the  sky. 
To  reach  bright  heaven's  golden  hill. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  117 

Their  forms  grew  small,  and  smaller  still ; 

Their  song  stopped  with  a  bell-ring  tone ; 
They  lit  upon  the  golden  hill, 

Where  silvery  streets  lead  to  the  throne. 

Then  of  this  vision  all  was  gone ; 

The  heavens  closed  the  golden  light ; 
Yet,  tranquilly,  the  song  went  on, 

Through  happy  slumbers  of  the  night. 

I  saw  no  more,  but  heard  the  ring. 
And  many  days  and  weeks  passed  by, 

And  still  I  heard  the  angels  sing 
Behind  that  painting  in  the  sky. 


MY  OWN    BRONZY,    DEAR. 


Let  me  go,  let  me  go. 
To  my  own  native  home. 

Where  the  light  bark  we  row, 
And  the  wild  forest  roam. 


118  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

Where  my  own  Bronzy,  dear, 
And  our  papoosey,  Blone, 

Watch  and  wait  for  my  care, 
Or  they  die  there  alone. 

There  the  bright,  shiny  moon 
Through  the  forest  so  deep. 

Sends  the  bear  and  the  'coon 
To  our  field  while  we  sleep. 

And  my  own  Bronzy,  dear. 
Has  no  strength  for  the  bow. 

The  wild  varmints  to  clear. 
So,  dear  braves,  let  me  go. 

There  the  beautiful  stream 
Flows  through  the  wild  glen, 

And  the  theme  of  our  dream, 
No  harm  the  pale-faced  men. 

But  we  show  friendly  face, 
And  we  treat  white  man  kind. 

And  ^ve  go  to  the  place 

Where  the  game  they  do  find. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  119 

And  my  own  Bronzy,  dear, 

With  a  heart  pure  as  snow, 
Drops  for  them  friendly  tear, 

So,  white  braves,  let  me  go. 

Go  thy  way,  red  man's  son. 

Seek  thy  own  Bronzy,  dear, 
And  with  thee  take  my  gun. 

The  wild  varmints  to  clear. 


ROSY   HILL. 


Love  thoughts  come  stealing  o'er  my  brain, 
As  dreams  run  back  to  youthful  days, 

And  wish  to  live  life  o'er  again, 
'Mid  lovely  scenes  so  far  away. 

'Mid  rolling  fields  and  widening  plain, 
And  golden  forest  fringed  with  pine. 

Near  Kosy  Hill  there  I'd  remain. 

And  that  dear  Forest  should  be  mine. 


120  SONGS   OF   THE   AGE. 

I  loved  those  shades,  I  loved  those  plains ; 

I  loved  that  grove  above  the  mill ; 
I  loved  the  pines  arching  the  lanes, 

But  most  of  all  loved  Kosy  Hill. 

There  was  a-bloom  a  sweet  bower  Eose, 
And  of  the  form  there  was  no  ill ; 

The  son  there  set,  the  son  there  rose, 
For  that  fair  Kose  bloomed  on  a  Hill. 

And  this  fair  Hill  was  just  at  home. 
Beyond  the  plain,  with  forest  deep, 

Where  moonbeams  lit  the  path  we  roamed. 
When  ghostly  shadows  seemed  to  creep. 

The  rising  son  there  kissed  the  Rose, 
And  Rosy  blushed  like  burnished  gold, 

And  then  a  hue  of  sweet  repose 

Told  more  than  shades  or  blush  unfold. 

Ohio  boasts  of  widening  plains. 
Of  rivers  bold  and  sites  to  build ; 

But  of  them  all,  it  still  remains 
That  I  preferred  the  Rosy  Hill. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  121 

I  rambled  o'er  the  mighty  plain, 

With  swamp  and  bog  and  rippling  rill ; 

West  Virginia  stealing  o'er  my  brain, 
I'd  risked  my  life  to  gain  a  Hill. 


TO   MRS.  J.   HAMILTON, 

Maysville,  Kentucky. 


This  mirrored  shadow  in  the  frame, 
A  faint  resemblance  of  thy  charm. 

When  beauty  won  for  thee  a  name. 

Unstained  by  fault,  unstained  by  harm. 

Thy  youthful  bloom,  expression  sweet, 
A  loving  glance  from  lovely  eyes. 

Still  bears  a  charm  for  those  they  meet, 
Which  from  pure  innocence  can  rise. 

Oh,  happy  man  who  shares  thy  love, 
And  blessed  be  thy  daughters  still. 

Who  seek  the  power  from  above. 
To  love  thee  more  and  do  thy  will. 


122  SONGS   OP    THE    AOE. 

And  blessed  be  thine  only  son, 

Whose  business  life  just  now  is  new ; 

Long  may  his  prosperous  business  run, 
And  live  for  self,  but  more  for  you. 

Oh,  lovely  scenes  so  far  away. 

When  you  and  I  were  scarce  nineteen. 

The  pleasures  of  that  youthful  day 
Have  lived  like  shades  of  evergreen. 

The  years  have  dropped  like  golden  sands, 
And  left  their  trail  of  silvery  gray,  " 

Yet  severs  not  the  golden  band 
Of  kindred,  love  in  youthful  day. 


ONE    HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO. 


'T  is  but  one  hundred  years  ago 

Since  daring  white  men  sought  this  land ; 
Then  here  was  found  the  buffalo. 

And  savage  Indian  bands. 
The  forest  drooped  o'er  winding  streams, 

The  lonesome  woods  were  calm  and  still, 
Presenting  but  a  lifeless  dream. 

Beyond  the  eyes  of  skill. 


SONGS    OF    THE    AGE.  128 

The  hills  were  clad  with  giant  oaks, 

The  lovely  vales  were  draped  in  bloom, 
When  white  man's  gnn  the  silence  broke    " 

Amid  the  heathen's  home. 
The  red  man  showed  a  friendly  face, 

And  pledged  his  honor  to  be  true, 
But,  like  the  honor  of  his  race, 

His  pledge  too  soon  was  due. 

No  mercy  shown  to  prisoners  then, 

No  army  stood  to  face  the  foe. 
But  forts  were  built,  thus  to  defend 

Them,  ninety  years  ago. 
The  Indian  warrior  scaled  these  vales. 

They  trailed  our  hunters  in  the  snow. 
And  now  we  tell  the  warrior's  tale 

Of  ninety  years  ago. 

The  years  have  dropped  like  golden  sands, 

And  every  day  brought  something  new. 
Till  light  of  men  throughout  the  land, 

Gleams  through  the  nightly  dew. 
The  world  is  hooped  with  lightning  wire, 

The  rivers  flow  above  the  rail, 
The  mountain  swallows  steam  and  Are, 

And  trains  sweep  on  the  rail. 


124  SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  * 

The  Avhite  man's  axe  has  swept  the  hills, 

And  towns  have  grown  within  the  vale; 
The  mountain  streams  are  lined  with  mills. 

The  world  's  adrift  with  mail. 
The  Indian  warriors  westward  drift. 

Like  mist  before  the  rising  sun, 
Their  puny  arm  once  more  they  lift. 

Ere  long  their  race  is  run. 


NIAGARA. 


I  stood  upon  the  wond'rous  shore. 

Where  foaming  billows  racing  roll. 
And  muffled  thunder  loudly  pour 

From  out  the  current  gorge  of  old. 
The  raging  river  down  the  steep. 

Rolling,  foaming,  roaring,  boiling. 
And  thence  to  take  the  mighty  leap, 

Plunging  down  in  mist  recoiling. 

Canadian  plains  seem  far  away, 

The  Oliftain  House  stood  grand  and  bold. 


SONGS   OP   THE    AGE.  125 

The  sun  closed  down  on  Canada 

With  streaks  of  light  and  burnished  gold. 

We  climbed  the  winding  time-worn  tower, 
Which  rose  above  the  misty  falls, 

Where  rolling  sheets  with  endless  power 
Leap  from  the  wond'rous  curving  walls. 

A  ship-of-war  there  made  a  leap, 

Down,  plunging  like  a  spear  of  steel. 
Which  could  not  rise  from  out  the  deep. 

The  depths  of  wonder  to  reveal. 
Some  flimsy  splinters,  brown  and  green. 

Rose  to  the  surface  with  the  foam. 
And  of  the  wreck  that 's  all  was  seen 

Of  what  was  once  a  warrior's  home. 

There  red  men  offered  sacrifice, 

And  lots  w^ere  cast  among  the  girls, 
And  f  ringy  wreaths  and  flowers  nice. 

Placed  in  her  boat  to  leave  the  world. 
It  fell  upon  the  chieftain's  child, 

And  she  the  last  of  all  his  race ; 
She  took  her  seat  'mid  flowers  wild, 

While  tears  stole  down  the  chieftain's  face. 


126  •  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

Her  boat  was  pushed  from  off  the  shore, 

'Mid  Indian  screams  and  cheering  loud, 
The  chief  then  lit  a  boat  with  oar, 

And  like  a  streak  the  current  plowed. 
He  reached  his  child  above  the  fall. 

And  there  each  other  they  embraced, 
Then  waved  farewell  to  one  and  all, 

While  tears  stole  down  each  bronzy  face. 

Yet  they  believed  a  hunting  ground 

Was  in  the  golden  far  away, 
Where  blooming  forests  ere  abound. 

And  time  is  but  an  endless  day. 
Each  year  they  sent  their  proxy  on, 

A  blooming  girl  and  boat  of  flowers. 
And  worshipped  at  the  early  dawn, 

The  symbol  falls  with  endless  powers. 


SONGS   OF    THE   AGE.  127 


KISS   HER,   QUICK,  YOU    LITTLE   GOOSE! 


At  sight  I  loved  Miss  Nellie  dear, 

And  Polly  parrot  loved  her,  too. 
I  courted  both  for  one  long  year. 

And  Polly,  too,  was  ever  true. 
She  said  one  day :  "I  is  your  friend. 

And  Nellie,  dear,  does  love  you,  too." 
So  first  and  last,  and  to  the  end, 

Miss  Polly's  chat  was  ever  new. 

She  watched  us  close,  she  'd  steal  our  words. 

And  tell  them  to  a  laughing  crowd ; 
Yet  I  to  others  much  preferred, 

And  of  her  Nellie  ever  proud. 
My  timid  soul  more  timid  grew. 

And  oh !  I  loved  Miss  Nellie  dear ; 
But,  then,  if  Polly  only  knew. 

She  'd  surely  tell  it  everywhere. 

The  train  I  rode  went  half -past  nine ; 
When  parting,  oft  I  wished  to  say : 
"Oh  !  Nellie,  dear,  wilt  thou  be  mine  V 
But  there  was  Polly  in  the  way. 


128  SONGS  OF   THE   AGE. 

The  last  of  June,  a  lovely  day, 

The  summer-house  was  sweet  with  bloom ; 
There  we,  as  lovers,  hid  away — 

Left  busy  Polly  in  the  room. 

But  Polly  stole  within-  a  fold. 

And  perched  on  trellis  over-head, 
With  eyes  set  in  two  rings  of  gold. 

And  no  deaf  ear  to  what  was  said. 
Still  as  the  ghost  of  thistle  flowers. 

Our  strutting  little  Polly  stood. 
And  caught  each  sacred  word  of  ours. 

And  all  our  secrets  understood. 

The  hour  drew  near  "the  parting  nine," 
My  stammering  tongue  refused  to  go ; 
At  last  I  said :  "Wilt  thou  be  mine  ?" 
"Oh,  sir,  I  cannot  answer  no." 
"Kiss  her,  kiss  her,  quick,  you  little  goose !" 
I  kissed  her,  quick,  the  clock  struck  nine, 
And  then  my  stammering  tongue  was  loose. 
And  Nellie,  dear,  was  ever  mine. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  129 

RESULT  OF  THOUGHT. 

Dedicated  to  My  Brother-in-Law,  Hon.  Valentine  Langfitte. 


Two  bright-eyed  boys  were  sent  to  school 

Through  all  their  happy  youthful  days ; 
Were  governed  by  the  golden  rule 

At  home,  in  school,  and  in  their  plays. 
Their  kingly  mansion,  near  a  town, 

Looked  out  upon  a  crystal  stream. 
Which  coursed  its  banks,  the  eastern  bounds 

Of  mills  their  father  ran  by  steam. 

The  fringe  of  wealth  hung  at  the  door. 

And  two  bright  boys  alone  t#  train. 
The  craving  heart  could  ask  no  more 

In  point  of  wealth  and  earthly  gain  ; 
So  wealth  and  pride  great  efforts  made 

To  train  these  boys  for  wealth  and  fame. 
And  parents  sought  wise  teachers'  aid. 

Whose  merits  won  for  them  a  name. 

These  twins,  now  sixteen  summers'  old, 

Sat  by  their  blazing,  cozy  fire  ; 
One  talked  and  dwelt  on  themes  of  gold, 

The  other  sought  a  station  higher; 


I'^O  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

One  spoke  of  gold  behind  the  bar, 

And  rich  hotels  in  city  style, 
The  other  spoke  of  church  and  choir. 

Renouncing  evil  all  the  while. 

They  both  grew  up  bright,  happy  men. 

Each  launched  his  boat  upon  life's  sea ; 
One  took  the  Bible  and  the  pen. 

The  other  took  the  hotel  key. 
For  one  had  watched  the  parson  well. 

Who  always  dwelt  on  truth  and  fame ; 
The  other's  pride  was  the  hotel, 

Where  devils  booked  the  drunkard's  name. 

One  preached  of  Christ,  the  heavenly  star. 

And  pressed  his  claims  upon  the  soul ; 
The  other  stood  behind  the  bar, 

To  barter  life  and  soul  for  gold. 
He  painted  charms  upon  the  Avail ; 

He  lit  his  house  with  brilliant  lights ; 
A  cordial  welcome,  one  and  all. 

To  come  and  spend  the  pleasant  nights. 

His  bar  was  on  the  gilt-edge  style. 

His  billiard  room  was  fringed  with  gold,. 


SONGS   OF    THE    AGE.  131 

His  card  room  open  all  the  while, 
The  young  and  giddy  there  to  mould. 

His  house  became  an  evil  den, 

His  family  drifted  with  its  charms, 

His  death  was  at  a  tremor's  end. 

His  wealth  was  wrecked  as  by  a  storm. 

His  brother,  now  a  parson  gray. 

Stands  firm  as  in  the  days  of  youth ; 
His  course  is  marked  with  grand  display 

Of  ministerial  love  and  truth. 
His  life  is  one  continual  ray 

Of  brilliant  gleamings  from  the  throne, 
And  souls  that  live  in  endless  day 

Will  wear  the  crown  of  seed  there  sown. 

Two  flowers  standing  side  by  side. 

Each  envious  of  the  other's  bloom. 
Day  after  day  still  grew  their  pride. 

Till  both  were  changed  and  they  were  one. 
So  thought  and  pride  youth's  bloom  will  guide. 

To  variegate  with  good  or  ill. 
And  should  one  choose  the  evil  side. 

The  heart  is  taus-ht  to  love  it  still. 


182 


SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 


'T  is  thought  that  makes  a  man  a  name, 

l\o  lazy  brain  can  ever  gain 
Great  honors,  wealth  or  sculptured  fame, 

He  merely  drags  a  life  in  vain. 
Minds  deep  and  great,  great  deeds  have  done 

To  scan  mysterious  worlds  on  high. 
While  thoughtless  men  their  course  have  run, 

Like  thistle  blossoms  in  the  sky. 

Thought  is  the  keystone  in  the  arch 

Which  spans  the  door  to  sculptured  fame ; 
There  Morse  and  Fulton  led  the  march. 

Their  steam  and  lightning  to  proclaim. 
Now  Edison  speaks  across  the  land. 

And  Morse  has  laid  the  ocean  wire. 
And  Fulton  placed  in  mortal  hand 

The  blaze  which  set  the  world  on  fire. 


SONGS   OP   THE   AGE.  133 

SCENES  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

Dedicated  to  My  Brother,  Mr.  C.  G.  Davis. 


Oh,  the  long,  long,  dear  long  ago, 
Fifty  years  or  more,  I  know, 
When  I  a  child  at  mother^s  knee 
Could  read  the  love  she  had  for  me. 
She  stamped  her  image  on  my  heart 
And  bid  its  charms  ne'er  to  depart ; 
Her  voice  was  music,  soft  and  sweet, 
Stood  slightly  tall,  handsome  and  neat. 

Oft'  she  sat  by  the  spinning  wheel. 
Spinning  threads  for  the  noiseless  reel. 
Drawing  flax  from  the  distaff  rest. 
Wound  in  shape  of  a  hornet's  nest. 
She  spun  the  long  rolls  made  of  wool. 
And  wound  the  large  spools  round  and  full. 
To  feed  the  brown  old-fashioned  loom. 
Which  stood  just  in  another  room. 

Then  sister  wove  the  whole  dxj  long. 
And  trained  her  voice  with  lover's  song ; 
And  little  sister  wound  the  quill. 
And  we  repaired  the  flutter  mill. 


184  SONGS    OF    THE    AGE. 

And  built  a  dam  across  the  stream, 

To  use  its  power  in  place  of  steam ; 

But  when  complete,  though  strong  and  neat, 

We  had  no  burrs  to  grind  the  wheat. 

But,  like  the  noiseless  spinner's  reel. 
The  mill  consisted  of  a  wheel, 
AVhich  threw  its  rolling  silvery  spray 
In  rainbow  mist  of  grand  disj)lay. 
The  mill  was  all  we  claimed  for  it, 
But  was  not  worth  a  phip'ny-bit, 
So  then  we  left  the  worthless  mill. 
And  went  out  slightly  on  the  hill. 

And  there  we  cleared  a  little  field. 
Small  timbers  fell'd,  the  large  ones  peeled. 
And  dug  the  ground  for  early  corn. 
And  planted  it  one  bright  Spring  morn. 
The  ground  squirrel  took  a  little  scout. 
And  found  the  seed  that  we  put  out ; 
He  knew  I  was  too  small  to  shoot, 
He  dug  my  corn  out  by  the  root. 

Then,  like  an  ape,  sat  on  his  heel. 
And  of  my  corn  would  make  a  meal ; 


SONGS    OF    THE    AGE.  185' 

This  raised  my  boy  ambition  high, 
And  then  I  planned  that  he  should  die ; 
I  made  wood  triggers,  neat  and  small, 
And  set  the  well-known  trap,  "  dead  fall," 
And  then  again  in  early  morn 
He  came  to  steal  the  trigger-corn. 

But  when  he  bit  the  trigger-thread. 
The  trap -stone  fell  and  he  was  dead ; 
The  corn  was  saved,  the  victory  won. 
And  thus  a  farmer  boy  begun. 
And  then  away  to  valley  field, 
With  timbers  dead  and  partly  peeled. 
To  heap  dry  logs  upon  the  ground. 
And  burn  dead  limbs  that  crumbled  down. 

A  cloud  of  smoke  hung  o'er  the  farm. 
The  scenes  of  which  a  lasting  charm 
Has  followed  to  this  distant  day, 
Of  care-Avorn  head  and  silvery  gray. 
Then  boys  and  father  tilling  corn. 
Awaited  calls  of  dinner  horn ; 
There  wigeons  pecked  the  dotted  tree. 
And  built  a  nest  no  one  could  see. 


186  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

They  plucked  the  corn  to  feed  their  young, 
And  paid  their  bills  with  songs  they  sung; 
The  wood-peck  thief,  with  blood-red  head, 
Also  in  fields  with  timber  dead, 
Would  pluck  the  corn  the  whole  day  long, 
And  then  go  home  without  a  song ; 
When  evening  shades  were  growing  long, 
Swamp  robin,  in  a  happy  song. 

Oft'  touched  the  sweetest  chord  e'er  heard 
From  any  charming  forest  bird. 
His  home  was  in  the  forest  green. 
His  golden  plumage  seldom  seen, 
But  champion  of  the  world  in  song. 
He  raised  his  voice  so  shrill  and  strong 
It  touched  the  valley  hills  around, 
And  echoed  back  the  charming  sound. 

Those  charming  birds  and  lovely  scene 
All  disappeared  with  Summer  green ; 
Then  golden  forest  leaves  came  down. 
And  covered  all  the  woodland  ground. 
And  often  came  the  dread  alarm. 
Of  fence  in  danger  round  the  farm ; 
Hark!  hark!  the  woodland  warning  lire ! 
'T  is  sweeping  fast  and  flaming  higher. 


SONGS   OF   THE   AGE.  137 

In  angry  flames  it  climbs  the  trees, 
And  rides  in  wrath  on  every  breeze ; 
It  leaps  across  the  ravine  wall, 
Dead  timbers  piecemeal  reel  and  fall ; 
It  climbs  the  mountain  like  a  steed, 
And  sweeps  through  w^oods  tornado  speed, 
The  fox  and  deer  fly  from  the  flame, 
Fly,  swiftly  fly,  all  kinds  of  game. 

The  smoke  and  flame  have  raised  alarm. 
And  neighbors  rushing  to  the  farm, 
Kake  fast,  and  fire  around  the  field. 
The  fence  if  possible  to  shield. 
The  smoke  rolls  up  in  fleecy  train, 
The  sun  shines  on,  but  all  in  vain, 
The  scene  is  but  a  smoky  world. 
Which  wraps  itself  in  silvery  pearl. 

The  sun  moves  slowly  through  the  sky. 
With  deep  red  veil  hung  o'er  his  eye ; 
The  silken  curtain  of  the  night 
Close  moon  and  stars  all  out  of  sight ; 
The  morning  sun  o'er  mountains  high, 
A  blood-red  painting  in  the  sky. 
Moves  all  day  long  and  passes  by. 
But  minus  power  to  dim  the  eye. 


138  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

Now  after  many  years  away, 
I  sought  the  home  of  childhood's  day ; 
But,  oh  !  a  sad  and  wond'rous  change — 
'T  was  not  my  home,  it  all  looked  strange. 
A  kingly  throne  with  golden  dome, 
Could  not  be  valued  with  my  home ; 
I  wished  no  change,  however  grand, 
I  wished  no  change  in  forest  land. 

But  wished  it  like  the  days  of  old, 
When  forest  draped  in  wreaths  of  gold  ; 
I  missed  each  bush  and  every  tree. 
O'er  farm  and  hills  so  dear  to  me ; 
Each  carried  sadness  wdth  its  loss. 
And  changes  grand  were  only  dross. 
The  two  grand  oaks  upon  the  hill. 
Were  slain  by  axe  and  hauled  to  mill. 

The  ground  which  once  had  claimed  the  barn. 
Was  plowed  and  planted  now  in  corn ; 
The  sweep  was  torn  down  from  the  well. 
By  windlass  rope  the  bucket  fell. 
The  moss-grown  walls  were  worn  by  time. 
Which  formed  slight  steps  I  used  to  climb 
To  wash  and  clean  the  bottom  stone, 
Where  nature's  fountain  held  its  own. 


SONGS   OF    THE    AGE.  189 

The  old-time  house  was  torn  away, 
A  new  one  made  a  grand  disj)lay, 
With  finished  halls  and  stylish  rooms ; 
But  oh,  alas !   't  was  not  my  home. 
The  rudest  block  in  old-time  walls. 
More  dearly  prized  than  rooms  and  halls ; 
Its  walls  were  built  of  axe-hewn  wood. 
Storm-proof,  in  forest  lands  it  stood. 

To  welcome  hunter,  brave  and  true. 
When  inmates  numbered  only  two  ; 
There  first  the  muffled  axe  was  heard. 
Which  startled  all  the  native  herd 
That  roamed  those  hills  and  forest  vale. 
And  left  the  only  dingy  trail. 
There  stood  those  walls  mid  fields  of  green, 
AVhen  family  numbered  just  fourteen. 

There  stood  those  walls  when  all  were  gone. 
And  no  one  prized  its  door  as  home ; 
Yet  memories  dear  lived  in  the  breast 
Of  those  whom  that  dear  home  had  blest. 
And  for  its  loss  a  tear  was  shed. 
Deep  as  the  wails  o'er  loved  ones  dead ; 
The  rippling  brook  from  nearest  hill. 
Where  dams  were  made  for  flutter  mill. 


140  SONGS   OF    THE    AGE. 

Was  forced  from  nature's  winding  wall 
Through  home-made  channels  deep  and  small. 
And  not  a  bank  nor  e'en  a  trace 
Was  left  to  mark  its  rightful  place. 
The  cabin  cribs  were  both  torn  dow^n, 
And  not  a  trace  left  on  the  ground ; 
The  creek  had  worn  its  banks  away — 
A  w^ond'rous  change  since  boyhood  day. 

The  woodland  grove  just  near  my  home, 
Where  pheasant  beats  his  muffled  drum, 
Was  swept  away,  and  now  the  quail 
Was  monarch  of  that  little  vale. 
The  highland  peaks  near  home  all  'round. 
Where  golden  forests  once  abound. 
Were  stripped  of  all  that  grand  display 
Which  charmed  my  heart  in  childhood  day. 

My' home  bird  's  gone  to  distant  hills, 
To  blend  their  songs  with  whip-poor-wills. 
And  sing  for  settlers  of  the  woods, 
The  forest  wilds  of  my  boyhood. 
But  now  a  hundred  cottage  homes 
Are  planted  where  I  used  to  roam, 
O'er  lovely  forest  hills  and  vales, 
A  wood  for  deer  and  varmint  trails. 


SONGS   OF    THE   AGE.  141 

The  wildwood  land,  home  of  the  owl, 
Where  wolf  sneaked  off  with  hideous  howl, 
And  panther  slept  on  bended  trees. 
Is  now  the  happy  home  of  ease. 
The  old  school-house  is  torn  away. 
Ground  sodded  green  once  worn  by  play, 
Where  game  ran  high  by  swift  moved  feet, 
And  battle  raged,  fear  of  defeat. 

A  thought  came  o'er  me  with  a  tear — 
This  sodded  play-ground,  once  so  dear, 
Asked  me  the  question  sad  and  deep : 
How  many  of  your  playmates  sleep 
Beneath  a  sod  like  this  of  mine  ? 
The  answer  of:    ten,  perhaps  nine. 
The  new  school-house  of  rustic  wood, 
A  ragged  beggar  quaintly  stood, 

With  moss-grown  logs  o'er  window  small. 
And  birds  had  built  upon  the  wall. 
The  desk  and  seats  had  crumbled  down, 
The  floor  lay  mouldering  on  the  ground. 
The  rude  stone  chimney,  lank  and  tall. 
Was  bending  from  the  school-house  wall. 
And  ruin  hung  o'er  all  the  scene, 
Where  old-time  school  was  ever  green. 


142  SONGS   OF    THE   AGE. 

The  hills  seemed  tall  and  far  away, 
Long  mountain  shades  at  close  of  day ; 
Green  waving  fields  of  grass  and  rye, 
Where  forest  peaks  once  propped  the  sky. 
The  valleys  spread  their  bine  grass  Avings, 
The  little  brooks  were  fed  by  springs ; 
The  windings  of  the  well  known  stream 
Were  lost  in  grassy  fields  of  green. 

The  rolling  fields  of  golden  grain, 
Like  sea  waves  drifting  in  a  train, 
Rolled  o'er  the  hills  and  mountains  high^ 
Recoiling  'gainst  the  rosy  sky. 
The  sun  went  down  o'er  fields  of  grain, 
^  Which  spread  o'er  hilltops  and  the  plain. 
Where  unmolested  forest  stood. 
When  father  felled  the  first  wildwood. 

His  axe  was  first  in  all  the  plain. 
His  gun  w^as  first  the  wood  to  stain, 
His  rooster  blew  the  first  shrill  horn 
To  w^arn  the  forest  herds  of  morn. 
All  sounds  were  muffled  by  the  trees, 
And  slightly  stirred  the  forest  breeze. 
Sketched  from  those  scenes  of  forest  gloom. 
You  have  the  painting  of  my  home. 


SONGS    OF    THE    AGE.  14:^ 


CONCLUSION. 


By  a  half-hidden  charm, 

With  beauties  untold, 
Bright  dreams  have  been  led  on. 

And  grandeur  unfold. 
Feeble  steps  have  been  made 

On  that  dreamy  stage 
Where  the  foundation  was  laid 

For  "Songs  of  the  Age." 


